Captured Moments
by Kira
Summary: SV Fluff, Captured moments from daily life
1. Lost

**Title**: Captured Moments

**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]

**Genre**: S/V Fluff

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: Captured moments from daily life

Author's Note: These started as small drabbles to keep my fans happy while I finished my longer fic, Chronic Vertigo and grew into Fluff Pills to be read post-episode to cope with the triangle. It's a series, each one short and stand-alone. Timeline: Between Phase One and The Telling, just randomly in there, as we didn't see every moment of their short time together. Captured Moments: Lost  
  
I'm so lost.   
  
I'm that kind of lost that everyone fears and some freak out over. Left could be right, right left, north could be, at this moment, conceivably south. This doesn't help in the least when it comes to following directions that are practically written completely in points of the compass rose. Now, if the sun was out, I might be able to drudge up some ancient knowledge passed onto me by the short 3 meeting's worth directional navigation and technical failure seminar I went to (but we all know how useful those are). And if LA wasn't so blanketed in the thickness of smog, I might be able to navigate via the stars.   
  
Well, if I had a convertible, at least.   
  
"You're lost, aren't you?" Sydney's voice piped up from the back seat where she lay, her legs stretched out across the bench seat.   
  
Yes, I'm completely and utterly lost. "No, not at all."  
  
"Why is it that men can never admit when they don't know where they are?" Her head was between the seats now, almost leaning on my shoulder. Oh, don't do that now. I'm trying to think here.   
  
"What? No, we can. It's just, at the moment, we're not."  
  
"Okay, so how long until we get there?"  
  
"A little bit?" I tried to hide the question with a layer of certainty, but I must not be that certain, because she's now climbing over the seat, falling in next to me in a tumble of long slender limbs….  
  
Think!  
  
"Do you know," she says, looking straight at me, "what will happen if we're late?"  
  
Yes, Sydney, I'm well aware of what fate awaits me if I arrive late. I'm very aware. So aware that I think I'm actually perspiring here. Thank God it's dark, or else you would also know how aware I am.   
  
I'm very aware.   
  
Except for the surroundings part. I'm not aware of my surroundings at all.   
  
I'm so not aware of my surroundings that I just ran a red light. I'm assuming, since I can't take my eyes off the road, that surge of adrenaline that accompanies the running of a red light keeping me focused on driving now, that Syd's face is matching that light now.   
  
"Vaughn! That's it. Where. Are. We."  
  
I'm going to die. Die and be left here at the side of the road somewhere – God knows where, killed by a seatbelt and a woman's purse. Noncommittal. Noncommittal!  
  
So I shrugged.   
  
Normal people wouldn't have seen that, but my girlfriend's a super spy. A hand reaches out and grabs the wheel, sending the car head-first into traffic before I apply the breaks at just the right moment and we stop nicely at the side of the road. See, we make an awesome team. Look at how I avoided death. And no handbag was included in that attempt.   
  
She points out the window. "Go ask."  
  
"No way!" That's like….a walk of shame. Or something like that. I can't go in there! I can't!  
  
"You'll never see them again. Just go ask where Rose St. is."  
  
"That's not the point!" I yell. "That's….don't ask me to go in there." I think my forceful tone just went into whining. Damn. I'm going to loose, aren't I. And I'm supposed to be the one in control here!  
  
"Go!"   
  
I'm so whipped.   
  



	2. Hairstyles

**Title**: Captured Moments: Hairstyles

**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]

**Genre**: S/V Fluff

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: Captured moments from daily life

Author's Note: These started as small drabbles to keep my fans happy while I finished my longer fic, Chronic Vertigo and grew into Fluff Pills to be read post-episode to cope with the triangle. It's a series, each one short and stand-alone. Timeline: Between Phase One and The Telling, just randomly in there, as we didn't see every moment of their short time together. When you have a crush on someone, you analyze everything about them, wondering what they did in those hours you were apart, what wonderful secrets they held on to that you wished you could know.   
  
I have finally figured out Vaughn's.  
  
She is an old French woman named Anastasie who has been cutting his hair since he moved to the states with his mother at the age of 12. It's not entirely uncommon for people of the same nationality to band together to form some kind of community that spans a city, and Anastasie seemed to be the mother for all the transplanted French in the area.   
  
She owns a small beauty parlor north of the city. Any day of the week, aging French women can be found inside, some to get their hair done, others just there to talk and gossip. Anastasie takes care of them all, no matter how old they get or how far they move. A true mother.   
  
I stumbled upon this secret one day, sitting on my couch, running my hand through his hair absentmindedly as I read a book. How did he get that perfect balance between bed head and presentable? The perfect length and cut just right to accent his dirty blond hair?   
  
"You cut your hair," I said, closing the book. He looked up at me, a small smile on his lips.   
  
"I do that, from time to time. I'm sure there's a rule somewhere that says a male agent isn't allowed to have his hair past four inches. Something like that," he replied, trailing off. I playfully hit him on the shoulder.   
  
"I thought you knew all the rules!"   
  
"Which is why I get my hair cut from time to time?" he asked rhetorically.   
  
"I need to get mine cut," I sighed. I usually don't have the time to find a place and stylist I like, so I find myself constantly running to one of those Super Cuts places for a quick cut and style before running off on another mission.   
  
"Yeah? Where do you go?"   
  
"Down the street. 20 minute cut. Nothing special."  
  
He looked horrified.   
  
"That's it," he proclaimed, standing. I was lucky I moved my hand at the right time, only narrowly missing his body as he shot up, his mind focused on finding the phone. I followed him with my eyes, wondering what was going on. He quickly dialed a number and spoke in hushed French, asking if she (who?) had time today for a cut. He laughed at something she said and assured her that would be fine before hanging up the phone.   
  
"What was that all about?" I asked. He moseyed to the couch and leaned over the back to give me a quick kiss.   
  
"You're about to get the best haircut. Trust me, you'll love it."  
  
I've grown to trust him over the years, and found myself outside a small parlor after a quick lunch at a favorite café down the street, completely unaware of such a place mere steps from where I'd often meet friends for lunch. A small bell rang as we walked in the door, and various calls of his name floated through the air, a few women coming to give him a hug. One frowned.   
  
"You were just here yesterday and you are back already?" she asked. It was a bit harder to understand her, as her dialect was different than the Parisian French I'd learned in school, and for a moment I miss heard a few words and almost ran over to harm her in some way.   
  
"Such a joy, but no," he replied promptly, and I realized his dialect was just like hers, a little off (something I'd never noticed before). Certainly not learned in a crowded high school classroom. "Actually, Anastasie, this is Sydney."  
  
He presented me to the old woman who had been standing in the back of the parlor, wiping her hands off on a white towel. She eyed me with warm blue eyes the color of an inviting summer ocean and quickly pulled me into a hug.   
  
"She is beautiful, Michel," she said over my shoulder, releasing me slowly and leading me to one of the three chairs in the room.   
  
"More beautiful than any other," he said. I felt blood rushing to my cheeks. Anastasie eyed me, and smiled over my shoulder into the mirror.   
  
"Then a special cut is needed."  
  
"No, no, I don't need anything special, just practical," I said to her.  
  
"Listen to that! The boy has finally found a woman who can speak properly!" a woman in the heater exclaimed, causing the others to laugh.   
  
"A little funny. Michel, you must give her lessons."  
  
I swear that woman winked. Winked. At him. Over lessons. Oh dear.   
  
He sat behind me as Anastasie cut my hair, talking quietly with the women behind me, asking about them and their children, friends from childhood. A few had moved away after college, another had a mishap that their mother found humorous. Every so often I found his eyes looking just at me as if I were some priceless piece of art, entrusted to a master of restoration for the best care. That look in his eyes stays with me to this day. He brought me to someplace special of his, somewhere he had never taken anyone to before, and trusted me enough to share.   
  
It was the best cut, and I've gone to Anastasie ever since. 


	3. The Ride Home

**Title**: Captured Moments: The Ride Home

**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]

**Genre**: S/V Fluff

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: Captured moments from daily life

Author's Note: These started as small drabbles to keep my fans happy while I finished my longer fic, Chronic Vertigo and grew into Fluff Pills to be read post-episode to cope with the triangle. It's a series, each one short and stand-alone. Timeline: Between Phase One and The Telling, just randomly in there, as we didn't see every moment of their short time together. 

Sydney Bristow didn't get many days off. As one can imagine, she prized these few days when she was allowed to sit at home and read, or maybe make her way around the city she had grown to love in her younger years, visiting those places she had once frequented as an overburdened student.   
  
But at this moment, she was sitting at her kitchen table, a book sitting just out of her reach, a cool cup of iced chai tea nestled between her hands. Her eyes seemed glazed, her mind thinking of other things, of the days of past and those before her. It had been a wonderful day and promised to be a beautiful night, as the breeze passed through the front door to brush lightly against her skin.   
  
The shrill of the telephone broke the zen-like silence of her home.  
  
"Hello?" she asked. There was a crackle – while most people experienced this as a normal aspect of speaking to someone on a telephone, she knew the crackle to be that of a secure line being accessed. Her heart jumped into her throat. Had something happened?  
  
"Hi sweetie," came Vaughn's soothing voice. The woosh sound in the background disappeared as she suspected he was closing his window.   
  
"Hi!," she almost giggled, her face breaking into a sparkling grin.   
  
"How was your day off?"  
  
"It's so unfair that you had to work today."  
  
He laughed. "Someone has to work, you know, the whole making money thing."  
  
"We wouldn't be broke if you missed one day of work."  
  
"We might! I can see it now – living out of a cardboard box under an….underpass."  
  
"Complete with an alarm and bug killers?"  
  
"Of course. And a door. A door made of reinforced steel."  
  
"But cardboard walls?"  
  
"Naw, we'd have to upgrade."  
  
"So it's just a smaller house. You're saying if you had a day off, we'd have to move?"  
  
"To the underpass, yes."  
  
"Okay. Would you be able to take more days off?"  
  
"Probably."  
  
"Good. When do we move?"  
  
"What did you do today?"  
  
"Not so fast. You can't just change the topic like that."  
  
"I thought we'd come to an agreement. We'll move. Sure. What did you do with your day off? Did you play some hockey for me?"  
  
"No. I went to a café and got my nails done."  
  
He scoffed. "Girly things."  
  
"Hey, now. If you hadn't noticed – "  
  
"I had, thanks. You'd think you'd be more productive on a day off."  
  
"My nails were horrible."  
  
"I didn't notice."  
  
"You're supposed to!"   
  
"Sorry! Next time, I'll, I'll pay attention to them. Really. I'm sure they're beautiful."  
  
"They're just painted."  
  
"How could they not be? They're your nails."'  
  
She blushed and stood in the kitchen. He'd be home soon, she could tell, and started looking through the refrigerator and freezer.   
  
"You still there?"  
  
"Yeah. What do you want for dinner?"  
  
"Anything really. Why don't you order a pizza?"  
  
"You are so a bachelor."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"You are. I've got to break you of these bad habits."  
  
"Hey, they've served me well for all these years."  
  
"Sure they have. How much do you run a day?"  
  
"Hey now!"  
  
"I'm just saying."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure you are. So, no pizza. What do you want?"  
  
She stuck her nose into the freezer. "There's nothing here. I can make some grilled cheese."  
  
"Awesome. Make some tomato soup with that, and you've got a meal."  
  
"Okay. How long until you get home?"  
  
"15 minutes or so, depending on traffic."  
  
"I'll see you then. I've got to go make some dinner."  
  
"Alright, sweetie. Later."  
  
"See you later."  
  
She hung up and placed the phone on the counter before digging through the cupboard for needed supplies. He always called her on his way home from word and never said goodbye, as if he could feel her own apprehension and decided he'd never again say goodbye to her, for fear it would be the last time. 


	4. Bells

**Title**: Captured Moments: Bells

**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]

**Genre**: S/V Fluff

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: Captured moments from daily life

Author's Note: These started as small drabbles to keep my fans happy while I finished my longer fic, Chronic Vertigo and grew into Fluff Pills to be read post-episode to cope with the triangle. It's a series, each one short and stand-alone. Timeline: Between Phase One and The Telling, just randomly in there, as we didn't see every moment of their short time together. 

There's this bakery down the street – no, wait, it was down the street from Danny's; I could walk there from his apartment in less than five minutes and return in just as much time, almost making it before he knew I was gone. Well, he always knew when I was gone and seemed to pounce on me as soon as I came home, passing it off as extreme hunger, relieving the emotions of the moment. He'd grab the bag from me and twirl me into a chair at the table, serving me the sweet works of a master baker as he sang a little tune.   
  
I always knew he was happy when he sang it.   
  
The bakery is a small, square building settled in a growing metropolis, trapped in it's own time of close families and mom and pop grocery stores, of values and morality and trust. Settled just beyond the narrow streets of homes and apartment buildings, it serves as a gateway between the two rapidly colliding worlds, offering a bridge of quiet and peace to those who walk through the thick glass doors. The sound of the bell tinkling above the doorway drowns out the sounds of heavily congested streets and morning meetings, of buzzing cell phones and angry workers. It's a safe haven locked in time, with old counters and glass displays, even with the tray of cookies for small children, propped up on their parent's shoulders and reaching out with small hands, fingers spread wide, to grab and nibble on as their parents grab some bread for a special meal.   
  
This feeling of safety overwhelmed me every time I set foot upon those old, small tiles spelling the family name just inside the door, the smells reminding me, ironically, of my mother baking cookies when I was younger. In the days of Eden, back when I was naive and ignorant to the ways of my life and how they really were, I would close my eyes and picture here standing there, before the stove, pulling a cookie sheet from the oven and smiling down at me while warning me to wait until they were cool enough to eat. And just then, when I would begin to crack my eyes open and make my way to the counter, I would remember that I now had someone to go home to, someone wonderful who, one day, would allow me a child to bake cookies for just as my mother had years before.   
  
My favorite was the raspberry custard coffee cake, discovered accidentally one day as I absentmindedly plucked a sample from the tray, something to tide me over until I returned home to him. It was so good I instantly bought one and proceeded to prove to him that it was, in fact, the best thing ever created. It took only a moment, but a moment passed too soon as real life called.   
  
Years passed outside the bakery, truths learned to be lies, lives lost and gain, and I feared that, just as my life had spun out of control to become unrecognizable, the bakery had changed as well. I could not bring myself to face it if it had, secretly wishing for one constant in my life.   
  
It was a sunny, breezy day just before spring would surrender it's reign over to the fierce and blasting summer, the weather just perfect for jeans and a light sweater. The sun sat to the east, hovering just over the horizon in a blended blue sky, a waking light to most. It was on this day I introduced one constant in my life to another.   
  
The bell still rang as clear as before, enchanted with some magic I wish I could possess. I closed my eyes, but this time, instead of seeing my mother, I saw Danny, twirling around the kitchen singing his tune, a piece of coffee cake in his hand. Almost lost to the memory, I stood transfixed on the spot, my mind conflicted with the desire to end the memory before pain came. Pain would ruin this place.   
  
A hand came to rest on my shoulder, breath against my neck.   
  
"Syd? Are you alright?"   
  
My mind cleared as his voice floated through my ears, calming me with its deep tones. I smiled and opened my eyes. The bakery was the same as I'd remembered it.   
  
"I'm fine!" I exclaimed a happily, my grin growing as a pair of warm hands encircled my waist.   
  
"Good. Because I'm hungry." The hands left my waist as their owner walked before me, strong and silent as he stood at the counter examining all the sugary treats held behind the pale glass. I almost skipped as I moved forward to stand beside him.   
  
"The raspberry custard coffee cake's the best," I commented, hands clasped behind my back. Brown hair fell in my face as I leaned down to see his face, almost scrunched up against the glass at the bottom-most shelf.   
  
"I don't know," he replied, his lips turned up in a comical smirk. "I'm fond of the chocolate myself."  
  
I scoffed and stood, pointing my nose away from him. I could hear him laughing behind me.   
  
"Okay, okay, Princess Sydney, we can have the raspberry custard."  
  
I blushed and leveled my gaze at him, his green eyes bright and golden in the rising sunlight. "You won't regret this. Let's bring a whole one home, so we can have it for a few days!"  
  
"As you wish," he quipped.   
  
He didn't sing a little song, nor did he dance around the kitchen. Instead, he stood behind me, his arms wrapped around my neck as he reached forward for another piece, laughing as I slapped away his hand. But he did manage to grab mine, and as my eyes followed the sweet crumbling cake, they found something even more sweet and sugary, a kiss that could put the old bakery down the street out of business in an instant. 


	5. Lazy Sunday

**Title**: Captured Moments: Lazy Sunday

**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]

**Genre**: S/V Fluff

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: Captured moments from daily life.

**Timeline**: Between Phase One and The Telling, just randomly in there, as we didn't see every moment of their short time together.

Author's Note: These started as small drabbles to keep my fans happy while I finished my longer fic, Chronic Vertigo and grew into Fluff Pills to be read post-episode to cope with the triangle. It's a series, each one short and stand-alone. This one was actually 2 parts, because it was just too cute to put into one! 

"You're still in your pajamas?"   
  
"In my own defense, I did go out for a run," Sydney replied, sipping at a cup of tea at the breakfast nook. Lying on the counter before her was the Sunday paper, retrieved at the conclusion of her morning exercise, the plastic back it came in discarded, the paper laid as flat as it would go, the center still buckling from being stuffed and folded in half for so long. Vaughn swooped down and kissed Sydney gently on the lips before snatching up the paper and sorting through the various sections until he found what he was searching for – the sports page. Sydney snorted into her tea as he flopped down onto the couch, falling over the back with a sense of practice to land half-lying.   
  
"Are you planning to sit there all day reading the sports page?" Sydney asked, turning in her chair. A foot, one of the two over the back of the couch, answered for him, nodding up and down.   
  
"It's my day off," a disembodied voice commented after the feet. "I might as well do something unconstructive."  
  
"Unconstructive?" Sydney asked, mulling over the word, the English teacher in her unable to simply let it slide. "I don't be – "  
  
"If I were being constructive today, I might care," the voice interrupted her. She smiled, and instead of pouting because of his comment, she jumped off the stool and initiated the best payback ever.   
  
Feet Tickling. And he was wide open.   
  
"Oh my, Syd, sto – c'mon Syd!" He didn't manage to really finish a word as he squirmed and scrunched up onto the couch, Sydney holding his feet firmly in place as she laughed and administered his punishment. He finally managed to pull his feet up to him, bringing her over the back of the couch and on top of him. He smirked up at her, a devilish glint in his eyes.   
  
"Hey there, sweetie. Decided to come meet me on the couch, I see."  
  
"Yeah," she grinned, the word longer than usual as her eyes sparkled. "It's nice over here."  
  
"Isn't it?" he asked. Sydney nodded, relaxed, her head resting on his warm chest, finding her own breathing slow as she matched his even pace. Vaughn looked down at her, a hand resting in her chestnut hair. She looked so comfortable, so serene; he almost had heart enough to re-think his next move. Almost.   
  
His hand moved from her head, brushing her hair down her back, tracing a line down her back to rest at her side, his other hand moving to settle on her other side. She murmured something unintelligible, almost snuggling into him. He sighed, but his smirk widened none the less.   
  
Tickle revenge.   
  
Sydney literally launched into the air, squealing as he assaulted her sides. His fluttering fingers were soft upon her skin, driving her mad as tears welded in her eyes. She wished he would stop, yet at the same time, she wished he wouldn't.   
  
"Vaughn!" she cried, her voice high-pitched, accenting the 'a' in his name. He let out a small laugh, completely assaulting her sides as she laughed, tears streaming from her eye. "Michael!" she cried when she could take a breath, her small hands coming to his stomach. She knew he was ticklish on his stomach.   
  
He shrieked. Actually shrieked.   
  
While Will still held the record in this department, his shriek caused Sydney to stop short, her face resembling an 'O' as she raised herself on him, her hands resting evenly on his broad chest, looking down at him and his red face.   
  
"Was that….did I just?" he asked somewhat oddly. Sydney simply nodded slowly. "You know that's my soft spot."  
  
She nodded slowly again.   
  
He sighed, a now free hand running down his face. "I'm not going to live that down, am I?"  
  
"No way in hell."  
  
"Damn," Vaughn groaned, letting a hand drop to the floor, grabbing his discarded sports page. Sydney narrowed her eyes.   
  
"What do you think you're doing?" she asked.  
  
"I've got to regain my manhood," he replied, opening it up, blocking her face from his view. She sighed and lifted a hand, pulling the paper down with the simple downward movement of her index finger.   
  
"Vaughn, we have the day _off_," she stated sternly, "and you're going to spend it reading the sports page?"  
  
His eyes flickered up to hers. "Maybe."  
  
She seemed to accept it for a moment, her hand releasing his paper. He frowned behind it, confused, and let it fall to the floor, clearing the air between them once again. This time, there was no air of humor or revenge, just of silence, waiting for either one to say something.   
  
"What did you want to do today?" he asked, his face lighting up, his lips curled almost into that small smile, threatening to move into it at any second.   
  
"It's beautiful out, a perfect day for a picnic," she replied almost dreamily, her head cocking childishly to the side.   
  
"Seriously?"  
  
"What?" she asked, suddenly defensive.   
  
"I think that's a great idea," he replied, the smile now there in full force. She giggled, excited. How could he do that? Accept her and all she was with such ease? As if he could secretly see inside her heart, keeping it whole and perfect in his grasp while asking for nothing in return. She always felt as light as a feather when is his care, in his arms, free to be herself, to throw out anything and become accepted. To be loved.   
  
Her eyes caught the fallen paper, though, and she moved to look at the sky outside. A few more hours wouldn't bring rain, only more sunshine.   
  
"Scoot up," she commanded, pointing at the throw pillow above his head. He gave her a quizzical look, but complied after she did not waver, her finger still pointing. She flipped over, her head resting in the crook of his neck, his right arm coming up to wrap around her waist without any thought involved. "Now," she said, picking the paper up from the floor and putting it in his left hand, "explain this stuff to me."  
  
If she could have seen his face, she would have laughed. He lit up, excited. Something she discovered soon enough as they spent the morning laying there together, sharing in each other's differences as his excited and rushed voice went through page by page, his passion for it all shining through.   
  
The picnic could wait. She was much more comfortable there, in his arms, breathing in his scent, warm and protected as if the world outside the couch did not exist. 

..

"I didn't think the park would be this crowded."   
  
Sydney sighed as she scanned the clusters of people dotting the large park, instincts honed to perfection over the years. She instantly assessed them all, looking for any threat. It was hard to do so, the smiling, jovial faces giving her nothing but a complete sense of happiness. Vaughn squeezed her hand, sending her extra confidence.   
  
"It's Sunday," he commented, "plus, look at the sky."  
  
She did, shielding her eyes as her gaze shifted to the clear blue sky above, a few clouds shifting with the temperate wind. How long had it been since she'd been able to appreciate something as simple as a clear sky?   
  
"How about over there?"   
  
Vaughn brought her back to Earth by pointing to a small rise settled in a corner of the park, the running track the only thing separating the tree-shaded retreat from the soft lulls of the water. Only a few people ventured near this secluded spot; amazing with the draw of solitude, of beauty found in the ordinary.   
  
Vaughn thought it would be perfect.   
  
He pulled her forward, their hands linked in an unbreakable grip - if a child were to run Red Rover at them, he would fall back, the binding of their love unbreakable. He brought her next to him, smiling down at her as she smiled at him.   
  
The pair caught the attention of all they passed, drawing bystanders' eyes to the corner trees as Sydney placed the basket on the cushioned grass; they shied away then, leaving the pair to their picnic. Vaughn took the small blanket from under his arm and flipped it out in the air, laying it flat over the grass before falling onto it.   
  
"C'mere," he smirked, lying on his back, hands held up into the air. She looked down at him, confused. He pouted, sticking out his bottom lip like a small child begging for something he wanted with all his heart and yet could not have. He felt as if she were this gift handed to him, something he didn't deserve yet somehow managed to get - and he wasn't going to ever let go.   
  
She fell into his arms.   
  
He curled his arms around her, twisting her so her head rested on his shoulder while her legs sprawled onto the empty blanket, his arms crossed over her, hands dancing over her stomach as the pair looked once again to the sky.   
  
"That one looks like a bunny," she giggled.   
  
"Which one?" Vaughn asked, confused, into her ear. She gripped his wrist, her fingers coming up short, unable to fully encircle it, and pulled his arm up to point to the cloud in question. He followed it and frowned.   
  
"That's not a bunny," he pouted.   
  
"Then what is it?"  
  
"Frog."  
  
She leaned her head up, finding his eyes just over the strong angle of his jaw.   
  
"How is that a frog?"  
  
He leaned up and gazed down at her. "How is that a bunny?"  
  
"The ears, there," she said, moving their arms to trace out the ears. He stopped her midway, pulling against her to trace something out himself.   
  
"Those," he stated, now moving her arm, "are the frog's feet."  
  
"Feet?!" she exclaimed, sitting up, her long brown hair falling over her shoulder as she cocked her head to the side, scrutinizing him. He shrugged, as well as he could and laced his fingers behind his head. Sydney playfully slapped his stomach.   
  
"Hey!"  
  
"You were looking a little smug," she retorted, turning her attention to the picnic basket. Vaughn turned, leaning on his side, watching her as she carefully unpacked the sandwiches and snacked, plucked from their (now) well-stocked kitchen. She seemed focused on the task, making sure not displace any of the Tupperware containers' contents with a grace learned from countless missions on which precision movement was the only thing between life and death. He smiled, remembering that time, yesterdays ago, the packages of C4 and lasers, the small movements and a memorized laser grid.   
  
Her skin was golden, the sun only lending to its glow. He watched her with complete amazement, counting his lucky stars she had reciprocated his feelings.   
  
The hairs on the back of Sydney's neck prickled, and she turned to find him there, completely absorbed in her.   
  
"What?" she asked, blushing. He reached up with a hand, caressing her check with a soft thumb. She leaned into his hand, her eyes slipping closed.   
  
"You're perfect," he sighed.   
  
"Flattery," she replied, opening her eyes and opening the foil around her sandwich. Sydney took a bite and pushed his towards him.   
  
"Never."  
  
"How did I get so lucky?"  
  
"I just have good taste."  
  
"Meanie," she smirked, and took another bite. Vaughn laughed and sat up.   
  
"Mean? Me?"  
  
Sydney nodded, chewing on her lunch.   
  
"C'mon."  
  
She swallowed. "It's true!"  
  
He pouted. Sydney laughed and took pity on him, putting an arm around his shoulders, leaning a head on one of them. "But don't worry," she grinned devilishly, "you have other redeeming qualities."  
  
He laughed and kissed her on the cheek.   
  
"This picnic was a great idea."  
  
"Thank you," she said, taking his words from years before. "I know."


	6. Quintessence

**Title**: Captured Moments: Quintessence 

**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]

**Genre**: S/V Fluff

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: Captured moments from daily life.

**Timeline**: Between Phase One and The Telling, just randomly in there, as we didn't see every moment of their short time together.

Author's Note: These started as small drabbles to keep my fans happy while I finished my longer fic, Chronic Vertigo and grew into Fluff Pills to be read post-episode to cope with the triangle. It's a series, each one short and stand-alone. 

  
  
"It's a VCR, Vaughn," she sighed, flipping a page in her magazine, "how hard can it be?"  
  
Michael Vaughn, who was hunched over in front of the TV, sighed and fell back to the ground, laying his hands on his knees. He glared at the offending electronic and started experimenting with the remote and his finger, trying to see how long he could balance it there. Green eyes still focused on his new task, he raised and eyebrow and said:  
  
"Have you ever tried to program this thing?"  
  
Sydney Bristow scoffed and finally looked up from her magazine, giving a half-grin as she tried to figure out exactly *what* he was doing. "What are you doing with that?"  
  
He glanced up at her, surprised, the remote falling from his outstretched finger to the floor. "Oh, what? Nothing."  
  
"Listen, you've defused C4 though a laser grid, decoded access codes, and you can't program my VCR?" she said, swinging her legs over the edge of the couch so as to face him, the magazine discarded atop a newspaper and novel sitting on the unoccupied end of the overstuffed piece of furniture.   
  
"Have you?" he asked, cocking his head to the side and raising an eyebrow. He looked so serious and confused she burst out laughing, slipping off the couch to the floor, her back leaning against it. "That's not fair!" he almost yelled, desperately trying to keep a serious mask upon his cracking face.   
  
She kept laughing.   
  
"What are you trying to record, anyway?" she asked of him, her giggles finally subsiding. His face immediately reddened and he turned away, tucking his chin to his chest. Sydney sobered up, confused, and crawled across the floor to close the distance between them. Her hand came up to touch his back, laying flat upon it, giving every impression of a comforting thought or work behind it.   
  
He mumbled something downward, his head still hidden from view.   
  
Curiosity getting the best of her, Sydney rounded him, sitting cross-legged next to him, a hand coming up to ruffle his hair. He looked so incredibly adorable, sitting with his knees pulled up, hands resting lazily across them.   
  
Still, she wanted to know what he was attempting to record.   
  
"Fine. I'll program it. Give me the TV Guide," she sighed, leaning back. His head shot up, concerned.   
  
"No! No, it's fine. I'll figure it out. I can program mine at home, this one's just a bit more … foreign," he replied, grabbing the control from the floor before she could grab it.   
  
"Foreign? My VCR is foreign? What about India? China? Taiwan? Those….aren't?"  
  
"Well, I've been there and conquered. This, this contraption will not listen."  
  
"Conquered?" she asked, holding back giggles threatening to break out. "Conquered?" she asked again, her voice rising in pitch.   
  
"Maybe that was a poor choice of wording," he reflected, rubbing his forehead. "Figured out, perhaps?"  
  
"Vaughn, you can't 'figure out' and entire country by going there for 36 hours. Trust me, I should know," Sydney retorted, putting a hand on his knee. He grabbed her hand with his; interlacing his fingers as if it were a normal process he performed. There was no thought, just the instant warmth she felt as he held her hand, his thumb occasionally brushing against her skin.   
  
"I was in India for more than 36 hours, my dear," he commented, finally turning to face her. His face had returned to its normal color, causing her to pout.   
  
Was she ever going to find out why he was attempting to figure out her recorder?  
  
"Please tell me," she pouted, jutting out her lower lip. Vaughn grinned, the sight of her sitting there so innocently and curious taking his heart. He sighed – trying to recover lost breath at the almost urethral sight of her under the shaded glow of lamplight, her hair pulled messily back into a ponytail, a few strands of hair escaping the rubber band. He grinned and leaned closer to her, placing a perfectly innocent and light kiss upon her lips only to pull away too soon (in her mind), giving her a tap on the nose.   
  
"Or what?" he asked, interested. She huffed and put her hands on her hips.   
  
"I won't show you how to program it," she retorted, sure she had a winning threat. He only gave her a roll of her eyes and steadied a hand on the ground beside him, pushing to get up.   
  
"Well, I have some time before we're supposed to be in," he commented, looking at his watch. "I can stop home."  
  
"Wait!" she called, pulling down on his shirt as he rose like a small child, un-tucking the pressed dress shirt. "I'll show you, I'll show you, just don't go." She was pleading, letting show her insecurity, her inability to let him out of her sight for even a moment, afraid she would blink and suddenly, he would not be there. A dream is a dream, she thought, and while she was settled in bliss, she had that constant and nagging fear that one day she would wake up and find out she was dreaming it all. That the good things in her life would disappear, leaving her with the sadness and solitude she had felt before.   
  
Silly, unrealistic, but real nonetheless.   
  
"You really want to know, don't you?"  
  
"Dying to know, here," she replied quickly.   
  
"Alright," he finally said, leaning down to look her in the eyes. "You said yesterday that you were upset because you were going to miss some program on A&E today," he explained. She nodded, remembering her commented made offhand the day before after hearing a radio commercial on the way to work. Just because she had finally graduated from school did not mean her passion for literature was gone, in fact, it was held close to her heart. So when she heard about an A&E spotlight on American literature of the first half of the century, jumped at the opportunity only to learn she would be out of the country at it's broadcast time. Sydney looked up into her boyfriend's eyes, flabbergasted.   
  
"I, I didn't think you heard," she whispered, stunned. He laughed.   
  
"Of course I did," he answered her, "I hear everything you say."  
  
"And you've been sitting here for the past 25 minutes trying to figure that out," she paused, her eyes starting to tear, "so you could record that for me instead of reading your paper?"   
  
"I did."  
  
"And you really love your paper," she continued as if he hadn't replied.   
  
"I really do," he supplemented.   
  
"Your way to relax – always get mad when I interrupt you," her small voice went on, hands fisting around the handful of shirt still held in her right hand. He reached down and pulled her up, standing her in front of him.   
  
"I'd do anything for you," he said slowly, voice low and passionate. She smirked.   
  
"Just keep me safe and sweet, that's all I ask."  
  
"All that and more," he smiled, kissing her forehead. "Now, can you show me how to work this thing? I swear, the manual's in a foreign language."


	7. Blatherskite

**Title**: Captured Moments: Blatherskite

**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]

**Genre**: S/V Fluff

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: Rain and Frank Sinatra, anyone?

**Timeline**: Between Phase One and The Telling, just randomly in there, as we didn't see every moment of their short time together.

**Author's Note: **These started as small drabbles to keep my fans happy while I finished my longer fic, Chronic Vertigo and grew into Fluff Pills to be read post-episode to cope with the triangle. It's a series, each one short and stand-alone.

_Sometimes I wake up, and I'm falling asleep,  
And I think that maybe the curtains are closing on me,  
But I wake up,  
Yes I wake up,  
Smiling.___

- No More Keeping My Feet On The Ground, Coldplay

I was soaking wet. 

A drown rat, brown hair sticking in uncomfortable and heavy clumps around my head, settling on tired, aching, and I'm sure tense shoulders. While before I was upset that I was dragged from my nice, warm, and dry house without my purse, a security blanket carried with the masked purpose of need, I now see it was a very good thing to leave the cloth and most certainly not waterproof item back where the contents would stay safe. Cold, shivering, unhappy, I was standing in a downpour rumored by the cute meteorologist on channel four to cause floods in some of the lower areas.

And he was running around as if he were four years old. 

While this childlike movement should have at least brought a smile to my face, I found my scowl deepening as he ran in a circle, arms held up high to the sky, as if he were a simple child escaped from the care of his mother, rebelling against authority and nature at the same time. 

At least, if he were the rebellious type, I'd believe it. 

"Are you finished yet?" I called out, cupping my hands around my mouth in a vain effort to rise above the pelting rain. 

My tree was little refuge. 

He apparently heard me and ran over to me, face covered in a large, goofy grin. Strong hands came to grip my shoulders, his eyes wide and excited. I frowned. 

"You're drunk, aren't you? That's why you pulled me out here?" I asked skeptically, cocking my head to the side. He grin faltered, hands falling to cup my arms now. I was surprised at how warm they were even after his 10 minutes running through freezing pre-winter rain, and almost welcomed a hug. 

If he hadn't been soaking as well. 

His smile faltered, eyes cast downward. "Don't tell me you never played in the rain as a kid."

"I did," I replied in my own defense, as if dancing in the rain was some kind of normality, that if you didn't, you were some kind of mutant. 

_Playing in the rain here could _make_ you a mutant. _

"So why would I have to be drunk to do so?"

"Vaughn," I whined, drawing out the vowels in his name. "It's freezing, I have to work tomorrow, and I'm 28 years old."

"I'm still failing to see your point."

The man could be so frustrating at times. 

"Listen, Syd? We live in a world dictated by rules and secrets. And tomorrow, yes, you have to work, but why does that make it so you can't allow yourself to let go? To just, well, dance in the rain?" He took on that kind of thoughtful look, his eyes almost shimmering as raindrops fluttered around his eyelashes, falling down the lines in his face. He had a point, I had to admit. A very good, valid point. 

Lighting flashed behind us, had to be, because the moment the loud rumble of thunder sounded, I'd jumped into his arms, no longer caring about getting wet. He laughed, throwing his head to the sky, catching raindrops in his mouth, his arms tightening around me as if nothing would take me from him. 

"Do you still want to stand under a tree?" he asked, whispering in my ear. He felt so warm and inviting, a jacket to weather the storm, not only a storm of rain and thunder, but of lies and truths thrown from a distance. With wind and water swirling around us, the thoughts of him being my anchor became frighteningly literal. 

"No." 

"Smart girl," he replied, and let me go, cold wind rushing at me, tugging at my bones. He pulled on my hand, leading me from my temporary refuge, my safe place from the unknown, leading me out into the empty field that doubled as a soccer field on sunny afternoons after school let out. Rain fell on my face, large spheres of tainted water, make-up already running down my face in rivulets of black, snaking down my face. I could feel it. 

Vaughn tugged on my hand and started running in circles around me, pulling me to join him. Round and round we spun, water splashing our faces, laughter echoing, louder than imposing thunder and lightning – we were in our own little world where nothing matter except each other, the world spinning into a black and green blur, only each other staying in focus as we spun. 

And I realized, then, that no matter how much the world spun out of control, how unrecognizable things became, that out here in the open world, away from things I knew and could run to, he would always be there, sharp, in focus, holding my hand through it all even if I could not see him. 

But then he let go. 

Rain had made our hands slick, pushing us apart. I went spinning and tumbling, slipping on the wet grass and falling to the ground. 

But laughing. 

It _was_ liberating, dancing in the rain. I let myself fall back to the soft wet grass, closing my eyes as water fell over me, cleansing me. Cliché, I know, but that's how it felt. As if all my worries were washing away and falling with the rain, that I could take whatever was thrown at me. 

Then I heard it. 

It was faint at first, a soft melody just under the steady rhythm of the rain falling on the pavement nearby; a song I could hear but not understand. But then it got louder. 

"'Just singing in the rain, what a glorious feeling, I'm happy again, I'm laughing at clouds…'"

My heart leapt in my throat, the words becoming more and more recognizable over the pounding of the rain, the occasional rumble of threatening thunder. 

"'So dark up above, 'cause the sun's in my heart, and I'm ready for love, let the stormy clouds chase, everyone from the place, come on with the rain…'"

Unable to stay in the dark any longer, I opened my eyes, grinning, to find Vaughn standing above me, his jacket cockeyed as he smiled softly down at me. I sat up gingerly, making sure nothing was broken other than my ego for slipping on the grass. He crouched down, taking my hand in his, the song falling off his lips in a sweet deep melody. 

"'I've a smile on my face, I'll walk down the lane, with a happy refrain, 'cause I'm singing, just singing in the rain,'" he sang to me, ending his impromptu performance with a soft, delicate kiss to my hand. His lips were wet, soft, perfect, and as he rose from the kiss, I pulled his face to mine, a hand snaking behind his head, running through his hair as we kissed, deep, supple. Perfect. 

He was my safe haven, my net to be caught on. 

As he pulled away, reluctant, he took my hand in his. "C'mon, let's get you home."

Hand in hand, steps light with laughter, I babbled the entire way home, content with his hand and laughter to keep me safe from the storm. 


	8. 12 Days of Christmas, Part 1

Yes, kids, it is I, Kira, back with more fluff for your enjoyment. Here's my take on Christmas with our favorite spy couple, told in 12 parts.

**Captured Moments:**  
_12 Days of Christmas_  
  
Part 1: Partridge in a Pear Tree  
  
_On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me  
A Partridge in a Pear Tree_  
  
"You seem…festive."   
  
Eric Weiss grinned and leaned on the side of my desk, a huge grin on his face. "Why, thank you."   
  
"I wasn't aware you were allowed to wear Christmas ties," I continued, looking up from the paperwork piled in front of me to grin at Weiss' Santa Clause tie.  
  
"Neither was I. Your point?"  
  
I tapped my pen on the desk and laughed. "Nothing, nothing. What are you up to this holiday season?"   
  
"Well, since I'm not a globetrotting super-spy – "  
  
"Weiss," I warned pointedly.   
  
"What? It's true! I get to stay home and spend it with my family in Connecticut. My brother has finally decided his wife can meet the rest of us."  
  
"Poor woman."  
  
"I heard that," Weiss grinned. "What about you?"  
  
"I have no idea," I replied, expression saddening. I leaned my head on my hand and looked off into space, aka the direction of my boyfriend's desk. Weiss followed my gaze and nodded knowingly.   
  
"I see. Wondering if you're doomed to another Bristow celebration."  
  
"My dad's not _that_ bad. He's just…reserved."  
  
Weiss snorted. "Yeah. And mine's normal. Mike usually goes to his mom's. You should ask to go with."  
  
"Right. Hi, Mrs. Vaughn. My mother killed your husband. Turkey, please?"   
  
"I can see how that could be bad."   
  
"I just want to spend it with him, really spend it with him. Last year it was just a present passed during a clandestine meeting." I sighed and pushed some of my long brown hair behind my ear. "But I know how much he loves his family – how could I take that away from him?"  
  
"He's a softy and in love with you. Just ask."  
  
This time, it was my turn to snort at him. Except I did it a little more gracefully. "I don't know. I don't feel comfortable just asking him like that."  
  
"Why? You're dating, right?"  
  
"Obviously."  
  
"I'm glad you've come to that point in your relationship where you've realized everyone in the entire office is aware of you two."   
  
"I've known for awhile," I countered. How could I not? I too heard the gossip traded in the break room, many people talking before they realized whom I was. "Just didn't want to deal with it."   
  
"That whole 'don't fraternize with your fellow agents' thing?"  
  
"You've got it." I paused, frowning as I realized I'd been gazing at Vaughn's desk and he wasn't sitting at it. "Where's Vaughn?"   
  
"I swear, you never ask him where I am," Weiss mumbled, shaking his head. "Why?"  
  
"We're supposed to go shopping today."  
  
"What are you going to get me?" What is he, a kid? I know he plays with a yo-yo and attempts magic tricks, but I was under the impression that the CIA had an age limit and tested maturity before hiring someone. I grinned at him knowingly.   
  
"Can't tell."  
  
"You're no fun!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. He spied Kendall crossing the room behind her and tightened his expression, standing up fully. "Looks like I've got to go. Listen, just ask him. Please? I'm sure he wants to spend it with you just as much as you do with him. And if you haven't noticed, he's a bit shy when it comes to this stuff."  
  
I rolled my eyes and pushed him off, laughing. He wasn't having a good week when it came to Kendall, having already been discovered teaching the techs down in their dark computer banked room yo-yo tricks instead of writing an op report. He narrowly avoided Kendall's gaze as he slipped back into his own station, another person saved by the quick use of alt tab.   
  
With the director retreating to his office after gazing over his troops, the room seemed to buzz again with after lunch conversation, everyone reluctant to relinquish their hold on the mid-day break. Which caused me to wonder why, when most everyone had returned from lunch, even those I knew took an hour and a half when Kendall was tied up in meetings, Vaughn had yet to return.   
  
Don't get me wrong, I wasn't one to adopt the habit of lunching separate from my boyfriend – how do you think I knew there were people who took longer lunch breaks? – which is why, when stalking up to his desk at 11:59, I was surprised when he asked if I minded lunching separate.   
  
I narrowed my eyes at him but let him leave. He did, after all, give me a good kiss before dashing off. And I'm nothing if not a sucker for the magic his lips have upon me at any given moment.   
  
"Agent Bristow."   
  
I'm a spy, I really am, but so was Kendall at one time, and he must have been a good one because I swear I jumped the moment his voice rang over my right shoulder.   
  
"Yes?" I asked, swiveling my chair around to face him.   
  
"Have you seen Agent Vaughn? His report is," he paused to check his watch, "15 minutes late."   
  
"I'm here, I'm here," Vaughn's voice rang out accompanied by shuffling footsteps. He dashed to his desk and grabbed a file, depositing it in Kendall's outstretched hand. Kendall gave a grunt of approval and disappeared again.  
  
"It's raining out?" I asked innocently as Vaughn put his arms around my shoulders, giving me a quick peck on my head. Let me tell you something, the sight of him with damp, rain sprinkled hair in a sharp, tailored suit just does something for him. His expression is fresh, youthful, and – "What's going on?"  
  
"Hrm?" He pursed.   
  
I shifted, turning around, taking his hands in mine. What, was he just handling ice? I sandwiched them between mine, rubbing them in an effort to give warmth. While California might not get snow like other regions of the US, it did get cold unrelenting rain and ice, if the temperatures dipped far enough.   
  
"Nothing," I replied with a wave of a hand. He grabbed it mid-air and put it back on his.   
  
"I forgot my gloves this morning," he explained. "Anyway, ready to escape this place?"   
  
"Just as soon as you tell me where you've been," I replied, ready to pull out pouting as a plausible tool for extracting information from him. He hesitated, looking off to the right – I took psychology in college, I know that's the way someone looks when concocting a lie – then smiled down at me and slipped his hands from mine to rest on my face.   
  
"Visited my mother, is that a crime?"   
  
I frowned and turned, shutting down my computer. "Oh."   
  
He sighed behind me as I gathered my coat and purse from the small shelf under the desktop, and was found rubbing his forehead when I stood to face him.   
  
"I don't understand why you won't just come with me one of these times to meet her," Vaughn commented, glancing up at me through those fine lashes of his. We'd been over this time and time again, my reasons the same. How could I fathom meeting her? I feel so responsible for her husband's death simply through relation to his murderer that – I wasn't ready.   
  
So I simply sighed and threw my purse over my shoulder.   
  
"I know, I know, you're not ready. I just wonder if you ever will be," he sighed.   
  
"Are we going to go shopping or dig up the past some more?"   
  
"Shopping, yes."  
  
This man has a list. A _list_. As in a collection of names in alphabetical order with the gifts for each listed next to them. At least it wasn't on a piece of personalized stationary, because then I would seriously reconsider his mental state. Instead, he pulled a yellow legal page from his wallet and unfolded it once we entered the mall, scanning the stores in front of us and comparing them to where he needed to go.   
  
I pulled an old receipt out of my coat pocket, unwrinkled it, and went down the hurried scrawled list of names wondering what I was going to get everyone. He snorted next to me.   
  
"What?"   
  
"I didn't say anything," he retorted innocently.   
  
"No, but that was a scoff."  
  
"What are you talking about?"   
  
"Just because I don't have a nice list do-"  
  
"I wasn't making fun of your…list."  
  
He so was.   
  
"You so were!"   
  
He shook his head, laughter rivaling the jingling bells of holiday decorations hanging from women's purses, and grabbed my hand, whisking me off to the mountains of Switzerland and a cabin for just the two of us, carolers coming around as we sat snuggled up together in front of a warm fire, not a care in the world. Or, rather, the Discovery Store.   
  
There was a fake fireplace, though.   
  
"Vaughn, just because you act like a child doesn't mean you need to indulge," I commented, tearing my mittens off and 'warming' them in front of the fire. He grinned back at me.   
  
"Weiss. This place has the best yo-yos."  
  
I groaned. "Should have known."   
  
"Plus, my nephew loves all this educational stuff," he added as an afterthought. Nephew? Did he just nephew? Just when you think you know a man…  
  
"Nephew?" I asked, trailing after him as he took large strides through the store, long raincoat billowing out behind him. He was tall and confidant, clearly a fast, productive shopper and not one to return home after shopping with $300 in gifts for others and $300 in 'gifts' for yourself you got to open right away. I should have known his love for order and protocol bled into his personal life.   
  
"Yep. He's five."   
  
He has a five-year-old nephew? Whom he buys presents for? From the Discovery Store? Wait a second here.   
  
"And you're getting him educational toys? What kind of uncle are you?" I scoffed, shaking my head. He stopped suddenly in front of a display of model toys so quickly I rammed into him, a fast display of balance all that kept him from falling into said display of neatly stacked boxes. A floor person gave us a dirty look, and I held back sticking my tongue at him.   
  
"That guy looked like he was ready to kill us."   
  
"You. Kill you. You're the one who stopped traffic here," I retorted quickly. Vaughn shrugged and picked up one of the boxes, examining it as if it were some kind of safe he had to get into. Or something like that. It's sad that all of my metaphors involve illegal activities of some kind.   
  
"Hrmm," he hummed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. I rose to my tip toes, resting my chin on his shoulder for a better vantage point. "Think he'd like this?" he asked, turning his head to look at me. The man has a wonderful profile even when viewed this close.   
  
"If I were five, I'd want a race car."   
  
"Well, with this, he can make his own race car," he pointed out, motioning to the box. Oh please, the kid's going to hate having to construct his toy after the work of unwrapping it.   
  
"I'm just sayin – "  
  
"You don't know this kid," he interrupted, turning around, almost throwing me off balance again. "He's the smartest kid I've ever met. He watches documentaries instead of cartoons and reads. Reads!" His face lit up in such a way I'd never seen before, a sparkle in his eye as he went on and on about this wonderful nephew of his and how he always goes to visit when he has a chance even though they live in Oregon. He loves playing the part of the favorite uncle, trying to get him the coolest gifts whenever he makes it up there for the holidays.   
  
The holidays.   
  
My face must have faltered because he pauses in the middle of his speech, wrinkles furrowing on his brow as a hand came out to rest on my arm. Always concerned about me over himself, the most unselfish man I've ever met, he let the hand holding the box fall to his side and stepped towards me.   
  
"What's wrong?" he asked.   
  
I shook my head vigorously and sighed. "Nothing." Trying to brighten my voice, I smiled up at him. "What fun is a list, anyway?"   
  
"Huh?"   
  
The poor man, confused by my sudden change of topic. He really needs to learn how to follow my strings of thought. I flicked the list sticking out of his coat pocket.   
  
"The list."  
  
"All right," he said. "I'll bite."   
  
"You can't be spontaneous. It takes all the fun out of shopping. What if you're in a store and see something one of the people would love but it's not on the list?"   
  
"You alter the list."   
  
"Oh? Doesn't that go against the point of list making?"   
  
His lips turned up into this lopsided smirk in just the right kind of way to make me believe he's up to something. "You want spontaneity."   
  
"It's not that, just that – "  
  
He silenced me with a finger to the lips. "C'mon."  
  
"C'mon where?" I asked as he put the box back on the display and tugged on my hand. He simply smiled back at me in this complete 'trust me' kind of way and dragged me out of the Discovery Store. He didn't stop there, pulling me back towards the exit, ceremoniously taking the well-written list out of his pocket and making a perfect basket with the now crumpled piece of paper in the trashcan as we rushed past.   
  
"The list!" I squeaked, almost pulling him back as I made a bee-line for the trash can.   
  
"Forget the list, Bristow," he chided, holding the door open for me. God, what a perfect man he is. And now, I have the chance to put my mittens back on before rushing out into the cold.   
  
"Where are we going?"   
  
"Hey, don't you trust me?" he shot back.   
  
"Yeah, sure, but not when you're taking me somewhere and I don't know the end destination. I've had people do that before, and trust me, it didn't end well for them."  
  
"It's a _surprise_. I'm sure you've heard of them."  
  
"In the form of 12 unexpected armed guards," I muttered.   
  
"Well, I might be armed," he started, motioning to the car, "but the only thing I'm guarding is you. I think you're safe."  
  
"I can take you any day," I stated, sliding into the passenger seat. He laughed.   
  
"I know," he smirked, leaning over to give me a kiss on the cheek. "One of your more admirable qualities."  
  
"I'll remember that when we get to wherever you're taking me."   
  
  
As a woman from the great state of California, outdoor malls always made sense. Most of the year, the weather was perfect and no sane person would spend the day inside a monolith of consumerism when they could be window-shopping under the warm sun and blue skies of LA. I'm sure out east, where they get snow and sleet and below zero temperatures the prospect of an outdoor mall frightens them. Then again, they're sure to have climbing jackets and down gloves, ready for the challenge Mother Nature throws at them.   
  
And I had mittens and a nice warm jacket to keep the coldness of a moderately okay temperature from reaching bare skin beneath its protective layer. But Vaughn had forgotten his gloves in the mad rush that had become our mornings, his pockets their only refuge. I only say this because I enjoy watching his hands as he walks. They don't stay still, like most peoples' do. Instead, they move slightly, sometimes scratching the inside of his hand, or picking at the skin next to his thumbnail. I'd been unsuccessful at breaking him of that habit, but it was next on the list, having already gotten him to stop chewing on them idly while watching TV.   
  
But with them inside his pockets, I didn't really have anything to watch, and nothing to hold on to. Slipping my arm through his always made me feel like I was walking to the gymnasium with my prom date and memories of high school came back. He ventured a date with frozen hands and patted my, holding it just over my mitten as we moved from the parking lot to a long row of shops.   
  
I stopped in my tracks.   
  
"Vaughn," I started, peering at windows cluttered with hand-made Christmas items and holiday cheer.   
  
"A lucky find," he replied to my seemingly unintelligible question. "I was hunting for this perfect gift a year ago and happened upon this place. Had to get something one of a kind for the perfect girl."  
  
I consider myself a modern woman. I'd never have a country kitchen or wooden figures with painted on faces. Quilts weren't going to be sitting on my couch any time soon, and the day I purchased an old-fashioned rocking chair would be the day I used it as some kind of weapon towards my own demise. It wasn't, then, the country stores that caught my eye with their turn-of-the-century holiday gifts and dark red trim.   
  
It was the antique store sitting just to it's right.   
  
"I didn't have a list last year," he continued, slowly coaxing me to move again. "Because I only had one name on it. One name that mattered, anyway." I nodded dumbly as he led us to the story, my eyes becoming wider and wider as we neared it.   
  
He'd gone out of his way last year, to find me something perfect. Even after the arguments and insults, the short time we'd been civil with each other and the way I'd continued to treat him despite his own sacrifices for me, he'd gone out of his way to find me something perfect for Christmas. Something I could use and cherish even though it was simple.   
  
And I got him nothing.   
  
He was the one who argued for protocol and rules. I was the one who wanted to follow my heart above all else, to throw them out the window. And yet he'd broken his own rules, placed, I'm sure, for a good reason, and faced inquiry for his actions just to make my holidays a little brighter. Wasn't that what the season was for?  
  
So I made up my mind then and there.   
  
I walked faster, stopping right in front of him with a hand on his chest. He looked at me quizzically, then down at my hand.   
  
"Wait here."   
  
"What?"  
  
"Just...go look in that store over there or something. I'll be right back," I smiled, pointing to the country store. He wrinkled his nose. Uh oh. I sense a whine coming on.   
  
"Sy-dney," he whined. Can I read him or can I read him!   
  
"Please?" I pleaded. He sighed, defeated.   
  
"All right," he conceded. I giggled, yes, giggled, and started for the antique store, my mind made up. He was going to get something special this year, something even he wouldn't be able to top. "Wait!" he called, running up behind me, feet crunching dormant grass. I turned; ready to bring out the pouting again. He simply held out his hands.   
  
"At least give me the gloves if I'm going to have to wait out here," he said. "Because there's no way I'm going in that store."   
  
I laughed and handed them over, laughter growing as he struggled to fit them over his larger hands. I waved and started for the store.   
  
This year, I would rule Christmas.


	9. 12 Days of Christmas, Part 2

**Title**: Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Fluff  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.

**Part 2**: Two Turtle Doves  
  
_On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me:  
2 Turtle Doves and a Partridge in a Pear Tree_

  
Never underestimate the value of a large purse. 

I hadn't really thought things through when I first entered the store, as to how I would be getting whatever I purchase out and home without the recipient either peaking in the plastic bag I was sure it would be packaged in, or simply looking through the translucent white plastic and seeing exactly what it was. 

But I'm nothing if not resourceful, and not only found something for my father as well, but put that on top of the gift for Vaughn deep within my purse. When he looked in there, as I'm sure he did the moment I wasn't looking, he would think he was getting one thing when he was, in fact, receiving something completely and totally different. 

If everything worked out right. 

I often wonder how people get gifts for others without the resource and guts to listen in on their conversations or, as I was planning to do that night, sneak into their homes and snoop around in some vain effort to read their personality and choose the perfect thing to get them. 

I suspect their way is the same as Will's, that is, either give them a gift card or make sure the gift receipt is taped securely on the lid of the box. The last two years, he'd gotten me sweaters either in a poor color, or the wrong size. Don't get me wrong, I love the guy, it's just that, well, he has little taste when it comes to giving gifts. Or fashion, for that matter. He seems permanently stuck in the stereotypical dress of a reporter from the 1970's, something I'm sure is due to his love for All the President's Men. 

Seemed an apt thought at the time, as I was making my way to the break room, the coffee pot on the counter calling my name. Adrenaline might be the best drug I've ever been privy to use countless times, but caffeine seems safer. Just think about it. Adrenaline requires running for my life. Caffeine requires, before I get it in the morning, others to run for their lives. 

I had a bounce in my step. I'll admit to that. The gift I'd purchased for Vaughn yesterday had been perfect, and my mittens now fit me properly and weren't tight like they were before Vaughn decided to try and fit his hands into them. And I rounded the corner into the large, open break room with a smile on my face - 

- and heard Vaughn and Will speaking in hushed tones. 

Let me tell you something I've learned about hushed tones. They're not good. Not one time have I heard something in hushed tones that turned out good in the end, unless it was a heated yet covert argument with either my father or Vaughn. Their conversation sounded nothing like a disagreement, though, and I squeezed myself into the space near the door and out of view of the rest of the JTF, my ear pushed towards the door as far as it could go without them seeing it. 

"So, wait, what are you doing again?" Will asked in his usual segmented speech. I heard Vaughn sigh.

"Listen, you can't say a word, okay?" he replied quickly. Nervously? "I just needed someone to hear me out, tell me if I'm doing the right thing." 

"Vaughn, I'm not going to pretend to know your relationship with Sydney. Justbe careful, okay?"

"Tread lightly and all that," he joked. I felt myself smile with him. "God, I hope she likes it." I can almost see him running a hand down his face with his free hand, a cup of coffee in the other. Oh, coffee! 

"I think you're fine," Will commented as I wallowed in my coffee-less existence, oblivious to my doomed state as a non-caffinated woman. There's a pause in the conversation and I jumped at the chance, hoping to catch them off guard and not loose any information in doing it. 

"Hi, guys!" I greeted warmly, making a bee-line for the coffeemaker. 

There's none left. 

In the time I've turned my back to them, Will had scurried out of the room, leaving a nervous and shifting Vaughn in his wake, the man's eyes cast at his shoes as he shifted from foot to foot. But he had a coffee mug, and judging from the time he got in to the time now and his talk with Will, I'm going to go out on a limb and say there's something left in it. 

"Hey!" he protested as I snatched the dark blue CIA mug from his grip and took a drink of it myself. 

"You're such a woman." 

"Oh, great," he retorted, giving me a half-grin. "First, you steal my coffee, then, you insult it. If it's that bad, you could always just give it back." 

I took another sip and tried not to cringe. God, what, did he put all the sugar from the entire room in this cup? Was I going to look in the cabinets and find no sugar, just canisters of fake cream? He was holding his hand out now, expecting me to return his coffee and be on my way. Or at least make a new pot. 

"No way, buster," I grinned. "Make your own." 

I left him there gawking at me as I headed out of the break room staining the lip of his nice mug with my lipstick. He shuffled around, apparently making a new pot of coffee, grumbling something to himself I missed as I headed for Weiss' desk. 

I was a woman on a mission. 

"Hey there," I smiled. He tore his gaze away from the screen in front of him revealing a red and green striped tie. "Nice tie."

"Thanks. What do you want?"

"Ouch." 

"Kendall's on my ass."

I nodded in understanding and perched myself on the edge of his desk, resisting the urge to swing my feet. "If I wanted, to, say, get into Vaughn's apartment without him knowing"

"I'll bite, what's up?" 

So, after checking around to see that Vaughn was still occupied with making himself some more coffee he could ruin with his horrible combination of cream and sugars, I leaned in and explained my plan. 

"I know it's not original or anything," I started, leaning my head to the side. "But he showed me the antique store where he got that frame for me a year ago - "

"Ahh, that place. You know, I was wondering when he would take you there." 

"Yeah. I went in and found one for him. I know it's copying and all, but I thought, since he was so close to his dad, that I would find a picture of the two of them together and put it in there. I'm sure he's got plenty up on his walls, and - you know what? Never mind. It's a stupid idea." 

"I think it's perfect."

I looked up at him, surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah. He'll love it."

"I just need to get a picture to put in it."

Weiss laughed and reached into his pocket, pulling up a huge key ring cluttered with those cheep and corny key chains you get at a place like Spencer Gifts. You know, the ones about beer, idiots, and sex. Connected to the "Want to see an idiot amused for hours, turn over" key chain was a key, a key he dropped in my hand. 

I almost giggled but shoved it in my pocket as Vaughn emerged from the break room, a new coffee mug in hand, a playful smirk on his face as he headed for us. 

Oh, he was going to get me back, wasn't he?

I hope so. 

--

With Weiss' promise to keep Vaughn from leaving the office for another half-hour or so, I felt pretty secure in sneaking into his apartment, searching for a photo album of some kind, finding a picture, and getting out of there before my mission was discovered and the surprise I'd worked hard to hide from him became for aught. Glancing over both shoulders, I slid the key into the lock at pushed open the door to the dark, warm apartment. 

Oh, thank God he spares the extra money to keep the heat on when he's not home. Of course, I know it's because of Donovan, the mutt staying at home all day while Vaughn was away at work. The pooch clattered up to me, gave me a once over, and must have deemed me a non-threat because he walked off to from wherever he'd come, leaving me be. 

I doubt he's kept around less as a guard dog and more as a companion; trips away and overfeeding by Weiss making him too large to ever run someone down if need be. I assumed he'd wandered back to his doggie bed in the corner of the living room and started at my task at hand, the timer on my watch set, my phone in my pocket. 

Vaughn wouldn't really be mad at me if he found me here, would he? I mean, we are dating and he's been at my house when I wasn't there. Of course, I have roommates who let him in and he's isn't using a key taken from Will or Francie in complete secrecy. 

Photo albums, right. 

If I'm me, and keep all my photos in a hatbox at the top of my closet, haphazardly thrown in, then Vaughn has to have them somewhere neat and orderly in a book with labels, right? This is the man with the Christmas list we're talking about here. 

My snooping, if you really want to call finding something for the perfect Christmas gift that, started in the bookcase standing on the far wall of the living room, crammed full with books and files, knickknacks taking up the emptier shelves in an effort to make it look more cluttered. 

This man could not do clutter if he tried. 

Pieces of sport's memorabilia, a few won recently, triumphs of E-Bay and flee market Sundays, stand on the taller shelves, away from prying hands but not curious eyes. Books clutter the lower shelves, dust collecting on the tops of them. At one time, they might have been often read, the spins cracked numerous times to make white stripes through creative titles and eye-catching designs, giving the impression that he no longer had time to sit down with a book to read. Come to think of it, neither did I. 

That's kind of sad, when you think about it. Books were my life before it was turned around, and while I attempted to hang on to that as I fell deeper and deeper into the life of shadows, I don't even have the time to anymore. I feel consumed by work. Which is why a vacation would be the perfect gift for the holidays, not that Kendall seems the type to give gifts of any sort, especially one that would let me have a life outside his precious JTF. 

Fingers ribbing against the titles as I walked down the bookcase, I kept my eye peeled for what I was looking for. 

Not there. 

Okay, where else would someone keep a photo album?

The kitchen was out. I'd been in there, and there wasn't more than a few dishes given to him as a housewarming gift by an ex-girlfriend who'd had secret hopes to move in ("She was insane, really," Vaughn had claimed) and some plastic utensils. The crowning achievement was his drawer, intended for cooking supplies, crammed full with every take out menu known to man living in the LA area. And here I thought I had that crown. 

Left the bedroom. 

_Vaughn's_ bedroom. 

Yes, we've been dating for a while, but I've never been in there. Well, at least outside of my dreams, which kept me warm on nights he didn't spend with me. A girl's got to have a healthy fantasy life, you know. I paused just outside the door, afraid that opening it, or even looking through the sliver of light allowed by the half-opened door, would ruin said fantasy life in that it would look nothing how I'd envisioned it. And while I might be an expert at lucid dreaming, sometimes, changing features of an established setting while dreaming is hard and distracting, and not what I'd like to be focusing on. 

I glanced down at my watch. 20 minutes. No time to be standing afraid of a room, of all places. 

So I pushed open the door. 

The room was dark, but not imposing. Just a normal bedroom, laid out much like mine, in fact, which made me think either he was copying me, or had been lazy and let the movers put things wherever they wanted and hadn't bothered to change it after they'd left (who has time, anyway?). I was betting on the second as I scurried in and found the bedside lamp, frowning when little light was emitted from it. 

"Oh, right. Let it warm up," I muttered, cursing out his light bulb choice. It made sense, though, for when you were woken up in the middle of the night and needed the extra time to allow your eyes to adjust. 

A ting of guilt hit for calling him in the middle of the night, but passed as I spied his closet. Of course! I keep mine in the closet, so why shouldn't he?

Of course, he'd a bit taller than me, but I'm resourceful. I can climb, or in this case, tip-toe up to the top shelf and the box I know is a photo box from my trips around Walgreen's. Balancing on a shoe shelf, I stretched up as high as I could go, my fingers brushing against the box. Just a little higher. Yep, okay, hand hold an - 

Shit.

Yes, I'm on the floor, the shoe shelf broken in two and an entire box of photographs spilled around me like freshly fallen snow. The shelf was forgotten as my eyes caught them, tossed without much care into a box just like I had. I had a sinking suspicion that just as I didn't wish to think about the past any more than I had to, the happy snapshots of a happier life and childhood marred by my mother's death almost unbearable, and thus tossed the photos away as if casting them from my mind, he did the same. Which was a bit surprising, considering the rest of his apartment. 

I've always been a fan of sepia toned photos, and while I know I'm not old, and Vaughn most certainly isn't old, I did find myself attracted to a few of who I'm assuming were his parents, the pair standing with their arms around one another outside a house. I flipped the photo over in my hand, presented with a scrawl I could have sworn was Vaughn's own. 

"First house, 1963," I read aloud, turning it back over. I looked at it for a few more seconds before retrieving the box and turning it over, placing the picture back inside. I started to gather the others up, giving them a quick glance to see if I'd like to use any one of them, and placed them back in the box. It was like a filmstrip, watching Vaughn bounce from age to age due to the random order of the photos, seeing him in one as a bright and happy five-year-old in a cowboy hat to a tumbling three year old holding his father's leg. 

And then I found it. 

The pair was sitting underneath a tree, his father's back to it, him standing on his lap, hands on his hips. He had to be about seven. He looked the same as he did now, though, his expression matching one I'd seen on him just this morning. 

God, he was an adorable child. 

His father was laughing, and at that moment, I could see why my mother would have claimed they looked alike. They did, perfectly. 

My watch beeped. 

Crap. 

Gathering the photos together, I shoved them quickly in the box, saving the picture I'd been looking at from the downpour of photo paper and putting it carefully in my jacket's pocket. My phone vibrated as I shoved the box over the edge and onto the shelf. 

"Hello?" 

"Dude, get out of there. He left 10 minutes ago!" 

"Weiss!" I shrieked. 

"Sorry! He said he had something to do and left before I could stop him."

I heard a key slide in the lock and thought if I'd remembered to dead bolt it after I came in. But as the key effortlessly turned, I realized it was like those in dressing rooms, automatically locking when the door closed. Like a deer in headlights, I stood in the middle of his bedroom, cell phone clutched in my hand, wondering what the hell I was going to do. 

First things first, I hung up on Weiss and put the phone back in my pocket. 

In the hall, Vaughn kicked off his shoes, a dull thud telling me they hit the back of his couch, and let out a long sigh. 

"What, you can't even greet me when I come home?" he asked out loud, apparently talking to his unresponsive dog. "I see. I'm sure you walk right up to Eric when he'd here, don't you?" 

Padded footfalls headed down the hall and right for me. Okay, think about this. He's going to change and hang up his clothes, so I can't hide in the closet. And he's sure to close his door a bit, so behind there won't work. 

So I slid under the bed. 

Sprawled on my stomach over dust mites and shoved next to a box of summer clothes, I watched his feet pad into the room, stop just next to the dresser, and just stay there. 

What the hell was he doing, just standing there?

Suddenly, the sounds of a classic Christmas CD filled the room, soft chords of old songs flowing out of a stereo on top of his tall dresser, sweet melodies turned up as he adjusted the volume. 

Who'd have thought?

He let out a short laugh and left the room, footsteps leading to the bathroom just across it. I should have known; he's probably going to take a shower, giving me the prime opportunity to sneak out before he even realizes I'm here and put together my gift for him with the knowledge that he'll be really surprised, so happy he'll overlook the fact that I snuck in and stole the picture. 

Wait. That isn't the sound of a shower. 

It's the sound of a bath. 

The cramped space under the bed immediately rose a few hundred degrees as I heard the water running and the rustle of clothing being removed just below it, a thud as each item hit the wall behind the bathroom, a few actually making it into the bedroom, his Oxford skidding to a stop right in front of my face. 

Okay, that didn't help with the heat under the bed, that's for sure. 

The bath stopped running, plunging the apartment in a carol-filled state as I scooted from under the bed. He'd left the door to the bathroom open, but I'm a super-spy, as Weiss said the other day, and I'm sure I could get by without him noticing. 

Well, he kinda is too. Which made the task a bit harder than I'd imagined. 

But what I didn't anticipate, as I tip-toed through the room, over the piles of discarded clothing, was what I'd see upon passing the bathroom. 

Let me paint you a picture: 

From my vantage point, I could see bubbles. As in a bubble bath. But that's not all. No. He was lying in the tub, amid the bubbles; head tossed back, eyes closed. Bathtubs weren't designed for someone his height, his knees sticking up out of the water like mountains in mist, a dollop of bubbles above each one as if they felt left out and he didn't want a fight to break out. 

The smell I'd gotten a first whiff of when I came up from under the bed turned out to be candles, the light I thought was from a solitary over-the-sink light in the bathroom actually candle light from three or so lit ones stationed around the room. 

OhdearGod. 

Michael Vaughn was sitting naked in a bubble bath surrounded by candles while listening to Christmas music. 

The idea of him naked in a bath, or naked, for that matter, isn't what was astounding me so much so to root me to the spot. It was the fact that he had bubbles. He had candles that rivaled my own. He was listening to Christmas music. And while he looked oddly relaxed as he soaked in the tub, I couldn't help it. 

I laughed. 

His eyes snapped open, surly freaking out as he turned his head and saw a sliver of my arm. As his mouth opened wide and face turned the darkest shade of red I'd ever seen on a person, I found myself doubled over in laughter, leaning against the frame of the bathroom, unable to breath, what with the scented candles and my own laughter getting in the way. 

I swear to God he shrieked. 

"Sydney!" he cried, voice cracking. "What? Here? This, this is - " He fumbled, legs slipping up out of the water as he frantically moved bubbles to cover certain areas. 

"I" Breathe, girl! Stop laughing! "Toyou!" The end was punctuated with more laughter as he turned to blow out the candle closest to him. 

"Youshould have called."

"And miss this?" I exclaimed, motioning to the general state of the bathroom. He blushed more and turned bashful. 

"Uh, yeah, this. Ummthis isn't mine. I just, um, found it all under the sink and, well, decided to, uh, use it," he explained. "No need to let it go to waste!" he finished, laughing a strained, nervous laugh. I simply shook my head and stepped into the room. 

"You having fun in there?" I asked. At least I'd stopped laughing. 

"I'd have more fun if you were in here with me," he retorted quickly. From his mouth to God's ears. 

I pointed, determined to give him a hard time. "Doesn't look like I'd fit."

"Huh?" 

Successful. 

"So," I said, leaning against the counter, taking in all that I could of him sitting in the bubbly warm water. Even his hair was wet - doesn't he know you wait a bit before dunking your head under the water?

What the hell am I thinking? Of course he doesn't!

"Yes?" he squeaked. 

"What were you and Will talking about this morning?" 

He groaned. "What a way to ruin the moment, Syd. Nothing. We weren't talking about anything." 

"Yes, you were." 

"No, we weren't."

I raised an eyebrow and ventured closer. Needed a better vantage point. 

"Yep."

"Nope."

"C'mon!" I whined. He smirked, a hand resting on my leg. 

"Sure you want to get this close?" he asked. My eyes opened wide, and before I knew it, I was sloshing over the side of the tub, landing directly atop him fully clothed. 

Wish that last part wasn't in there. 

"Hi."

"How'd you get in my house?" he asked, mere inches from my face and not moving to kiss me. I looked to the side. Best to tell the truth.

"Got Weiss' key. Wanted to surprise you." 

"Really?" God, how I love when his face lights up like that, his mouth turning into the sweetest closed smile I've ever seen. 

"Yep."

"But you do, every day," he replied. 

"Oh?" 

He sighed and I know he moved to run a hand through his hair, but it was his own fault I was pinning down both his arms. "You do, with every single thing you do. Hell, even sticking with me surprises me." 

"Why would it?" 

"I never thought in a million years a woman like you, gorgeous, smart, strong, would go with a guy like me."

Now it was my turn to pout. "Oh? Insulting my choice in men now, are we?"

"No! Not that at all! Just - "

Okay, if he's going to be this close to me and not kiss me, I'm going to have to take matters into my own hands. Plus, while I love his compliments and talk that rivals the writers at Hallmark, I love his kisses even more, and completely forgot about the absurd state of his apartment and bathroom as I swooped down and captured his lips with mine. The sounds of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas floated in from the stereo in the other room, and I couldn't help but appreciate how true that was. 

10 days till Christmas, and it was looking to be the best yet. 


	10. 12 Days of Christmas, Part 3

**Title**: Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Fluff  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.

**Part Three**: Three French Hens 

_On the third day of Christmas my true love sent to me:  
3 French Hens, 2 Turtle Doves  
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree_

  
"You know I'm not much of a cook. Are you sure you want breakfast?"

Let me just say, I never made it home last night. I can predict that my clothes are still on the floor in the bathroom, a heap of wet cloth now dried into impossible shapes a modern artist would jump and at probably sell for a few thousand dollars. I snuggled into the pillow more, smiling as Vaughn's distinct scent floated up my nose, and nodded slightly.

"It can't be that hard, Vaughn," I muttered, popping a brown eye open to look at him. He laughed, running a hand down my bare shoulder in that insanity-inducing way, grinning down at me. 

"All right, but I warned you," he smirked, and leaned down to give me a quick, sweet kiss before bouncing off the bed. I closed my eyes, pulling the covers around me even tighter, feeling as if I were floating on a cloud on a spring day, sunlight warming my back as he rustled into clothes and padded off into his rarely-used kitchen. 

Yawning, I spread my arms high above my head and rolled onto my back, grinning wildly as I opened my eyes and took in the gorgeous view out the window. The sky was blue and clear, and birds were almost chirping a melody in my honor. A pan hit the stove down the hall with a metallic clang, and my smile broke open when the soft humming of Vaughn's version of White Christmas filled the quiet apartment. 

Life couldn't get more perfect. 

Overwhelmed with a swell of joy growing within my heart, I let out a satisfied sigh and threw my legs over the side of the large bed, ivory sheets wrapped around me like a cocoon. At least now I had a real excuse to wear some of Vaughn's clothing, an act that seems odd on the surface, but the prospect meant so much more to me. That I could carry something of his with me wherever I went, no matter how silly or nostalgic. 

"Vaughn?" I called out. The hiss of an egg hitting a buttered pan gave pause before he called back. 

"Yeah?" 

"Umm, is there something I can wear? I think my cloths resemble a stone right now," I asked nervously. He laughed again, making me wonder how long it had been since I'd heard him so happy and content enough to laugh so many times in a short time period. 

"Grab something from the dresser. Should be a shirt or two in the closet, but be careful for the shelf," he called back, the added hiss of egg continuous as he spoke. "I think Donovan got to it last night." 

The events of last night, and I'm talking about those before being seduced into a bubble bath by an attractive and assertive half-French CIA agent, came crashing into me, causing me to fumble and fall off the bed with a dull thud. 

"Ouch," I whined, rubbing my hip. 

"Are you okay?" Vaughn asked breathlessly, suddenly standing in the doorway to his bedroom, a hand on each side of the frame as he leaned into the room. Just stay that way, mister, so I can appreciate the view. Boxers, tight t-shirt, and a spatula grasped in his left hand. I smiled innocently. 

"Fine. I'm just a klutz." 

"I know," he remarked, letting out a pent-up breath. "Get dressed. Breakfast will be ready soon, and I want you to be in the front row as you realize I can't cook a thing."

"I'm sure you're just being melodramatic," I commented, collecting myself from the floor. That's when I saw it, sticking to the baseboard just behind the door, a corner visible from the doorway. 

The photo.

Oh, crap! I'd totally forgotten about it, my yearning for the grown up version of the boy pictured within it throwing all reason from my mind. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I scooted from under the bed for my presentation of the softer side of Vaughn, stuck under the small space between baseboard and floor. My eyes widened as I saw it, causing Vaughn to frown and follow my line of vision. 

"Okay!" I squeaked, standing in one fluid motion. He seemed surprised, but let it melt away as he pushed off from the doorframe and raised an eyebrow, probably wondering about my mental state. "I'll be out in a minute!" 

He shook his head and turned, rushing down the hall as he smelled his precious attempt at impressing me with culinary skills burning on the stove. Giving him another second to clear the hall, punctuated by a curse and yelp as he threw the pan from the stove into what I'm going to assume was the sink, I dashed across the room and scooped up the picture, checking it for any marks. If I'd ruined it in any way, I'd never forgive myself. 

But where was I going to hide it? 

I looked around the room wildly, willing a bright idea to hit me in the head before he finished cooking. Ah ha! I ran to the closet and pulled a blue Oxford from a hanger, mourning the fact that there went another day he could wear one, and threw it over my shoulders and the hanger swung back and forth, clattering against the pole as I buttoned it up and went searching for a pair of clean boxers to finish my look. Satisfied _and_ color-coordinated (and realizing he had quite a few pairs to match his blue shirts, so probably was as well), I smiled triumphantly as I put the picture in the breast pocket of my shirt for safe keeping until I could get to my coat. 

I was about to leave the room and march into the kitchen when the phone rang. He answered without the gruff proclamation of his last name, giving a quick and nice, "Allo."

Oh, it's too early in the morning for French speaking. There are a few sentences I know by heart that require no translation, but I'm sure none of those would be used in casual telephone conversation. 

"Oui, ma maman - "

I clutched the doorframe and bent my head around it, greeted with a sliver of him standing at the edge of the kitchen, the phone balanced precociously between his shoulder and ear as he worked on his breakfast. I was overwhelmed with a sense of curiosity, wanting to know exactly what about his mother and why he was getting a call early on a weekday morning. 

"Oui, elle devrait avoir mis l'ordre dans hier," he replied, assertive. Order for what? I took a few steps down the hall and took cover in the bathroom, hoping to hear better. I could, but he was speaking so fast, a hand creeping up to the back of his neck as it did when he was embarrassed, I could barely make out half the words. I swear, he's a motor mouth when flustered, which is actually kind of cute. 

I still wanted to know who he was talking to. 

My heart sunk as I realized he was probably talking about some plans his mother had made or something of the sort. A family ritual of some kind I wasn't allowed to intrude on. My chronic smile of the morning faded and I turned around, digging through the pile of clothing strewn around the bathroom, forgotten in our activities of the night, rummaging for my jacket. 

Pulling it out from the mess, I was glad it was waterproof, one of those intended for mountain climbers and international secret agents, and shook it out a few times, watching as it bloomed back into it's original shape. I tucked the picture back in the pocket, wondering if my cell phone survived the encounter with water, and draped it across the counter. 

The sounds of Vaughn's voice was getting louder - he was coming down the hallway, still on the phone. I quickly shut the door and turned on the sink, my ear pressed to the door as he passed. 

"Yeah, I'll pay extra for the holiday," he said in English. He must have stuck his head in the bedroom, because he was coming closer to the door. "Thanks, Marie. I really appreciate it."

The phone beeped as he hung up. His knuckles rapped on the door. 

"Syd?"

"Yeah, be right out!" I said, plastering a smile on my face. I splashed it with water quickly and turned off the water, throwing open the door. He stood just on the other side of it, phone in his hand. He closed the distance between us quickly, capturing my lips in his, snaking a hand around my waist, pulling my tight against him. He always kissed with such passion and ferocity, yet was incredibly soft, moving like an expert as he tasted me. We stood there for a moment before be broke away, leaving me positively breathless. 

"You look even better in that shirt than I do," he commented. "Ready to eat?" he asked slowly, hovering inches from my face. I moved a hand up to touch swollen lips and smiled meekly. 

"Yeah." 

"Really? Great." He took my hand and lead me to his small table that doubled as a desk and sat me down. I frowned, the pan sticking out of the sink. He moved around quickly and placed a plate front of me. 

"Vaughn?" I started, looking from the plate to his face. He blushed and sat next to me. 

He rubbed his nose as his gaze flickered to the table, then back to me. "Sorry. I tried."

I laughed and put a hand on his arm. "It's fine, really," I replied softly. "I really like toast."

"You're not lying now, are you?" he asked. Oh, he looked so vulnerable!

"Next time, we'll leave the cooking to me, though, okay?" I smiled. He looked confused for a moment, but a smile slowly grew on his handsome face. His hand gripped mine on his arm, and he brought it to his face, landing a kiss in my palm. 

"I don't know what I ever did to deserve you," he muttered, planning another on my wrist. I swear, if he kept doing that, I wouldn't get to my toast. I reached out and put my other hand on the side of his face, cupping his jaw line. 

"I often wonder the same thing." 

He nodded and let my hand fall. "Try to get out of work early tonight," he said cryptically. I raised an eyebrow and took a bite of my toast. 

"Why?" 

"If I tell you, it won't be a surprise."

I pondered this for a moment as Vaughn started eating his own toast. Well, judging on his last surprise, I wasn't one to argue with that. Plus, who doesn't like an excuse to leave work early?

--

"Agent Bristow, may I remind you that enemies of the United States don't take breaks for _holidays_?"

Kendall defiantly wasn't in the holiday spirit. 

"I'm sorry, but I can't grant your vacation request," he continued, rubbing the top of his head as if it were that of a genie coming to grant his wish. He always seemed to be doing that when around me, of all people, and I was starting to get the feeling that even though he was pushing me not to leave the CIA a couple of months ago, he still wanted me out of his non-existent hair.

"Director Kendall, may I be blunt?" I retorted a bit harsher than I'd intended to. 

"Please," he waved his hand. 

"I have given nothing but my life to this agency for the last two years. I think I _deserve_ a little time off."

"There's nothing I can do."

"Yes, there is something you can do!" I replied. Like leaving. Or deciding you missed your calling as a Vegas showgirl all those years ago and fleeing to go join a troop. 

"I can't stop terrorists, Agent Bristow, nor can I bring all the illegal activity of the world to a halt so you can have a few days off. So, if you can come to me with a solution to those problems, I'm sorry, but I'll be seeing you along with all the other agents of this operations center on Christmas. Now, if you'll excuse me"

And he walked off. 

Ass. 

Unfeeling and aloof seem to be the most important qualifications for management in the intelligence world, two reasons why I never picture myself leaving the field any time. Call me soft, but I always love to help people, to see the best in them, and to feel for them. Cutting off my emotions would be like cutting off my arm, neither happening any time soon. 

But what was happening soon was my escape from the monotony of the workplace that had occurred when the holiday season brought a lack of leads of any kind, even criminals and terrorists finding it in their hearts to take a little break and spend the time with their families. That, or I just wasn't paying close enough attention to anything other than Christmas Carols playing on my radio or the need for red and green colored outfits. 

"Hey, Sydney." Weiss came jogging up to me, a piece of paper in his hand. "Can you give this to Vaughn when you see him? He asked me to get the number for someone and, well, I've got to go."

"Hot date?" 

"Heh. You read my mind."

"They need to stop sending recruits," I laughed. Weiss nodded playfully, pulling his gloves out of his coat pockets. 

"Just make sure he gets that," he stated, and gave me a quick half-hug before brushing past and heading for the exit, escaping as I wanted to do. I sighed wistfully as I watched him go and unfolded the memo page he'd handed me. 

Written in his sloppy, rushed scrawl was:

Andrew Mullins  
555-9320

I frowned, wondering who this person was and why Vaughn had requested his number. It obviously wasn't related to work, or else Weiss would have handed it off himself, or even made the call. Plus, confidential information wasn't brought home, and Weiss knew I'd probably be next seeing Vaughn outside the office. 

So there's no harm in calling it, right?

But just as I was retracing the path to my desk, a hand wrapped around my middle and caused me to giggle as I was pulled back, warm breath hitting the back of my right ear. 

"Ready to go?" 

I grinned and twisted around, not minding that we were standing in the JTF, or that several people had stopped working to look at us. 

"Yes, please. I can't stand being here any longer," I replied. He let me go, handing me my coat. I cocked my head to the side and glanced over my shoulder to see my workstation shut down and papers neatly ordered. Well, I certainly hadn't ordered them like that, and they best enjoy their time in an organized manor, because they wouldn't be seeing a state like that any time soon. 

"Can you believe Kendall won't give me any holiday time?" I asked, looping my scarf around my neck. 

"That's odd," Vaughn breathed. I spun and glared. 

"Wait, you got vacation?"

"Well, yeah," he replied as-matter-of-factly. I growled. "I always do."

"How come you do and I don't?" I whined. He shrugged, then snapped. 

"I always go to Devlin," he announced, "since he is, technically, my superior. Plus, Devlin's a family friend and knows how I always spend the holidays with my mother."

"Oh," I said voicelessly, looking down. I find it so cute and endearing that he spends his holidays at home with his mother, giving her company on a day when company was yearned for. When family and love was the center of attention, and jobs or history had no bearing on conversation. Which should make me feel better about asking to go with, shouldn't it?

But it doesn't. 

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, rubbing my arm. I shake my head, hair swishing in front of my face. 

"Nothing."

"Syd," he said. "I know when something's bothering you."

"Don't worry, it's nothing, really," I said, smiling up at him. "I just keep remembering all the holidays I spent alone, after my mother died." God, I hate lying to him, I really do. His face falls and he pulls me into a warm hug, hands rubbing my back. While I am feeling bad about the holiday season, and while his hug does make me feel a bit better, I hate the fact that I just can't come out straight and say what's bugging me. For all the strength he says I have, I'm incredibly weak. 

"It'll be fine," he whispered into my ear. 

Could I love this man any more?

"Anyway, let's go, before Kendall catches us and makes us write gist reports until midnight." He pulls on my hand, interweaving our fingers as we almost skip down the dark, cold halls of the JTF, almost bursting with glee. He was, I could tell, his dimples coming out full force as he drove through the streets of LA without a care in the world. 

I pressed my face to the glass of his window, hands on either side as I grin at the beautiful lights and decorations in the city, how magical it looks even without snow on the ground. That's the one thing I miss about my life in Virginia, how sparkling snow would glitter to the ground, blanketing the world in a silent, bright wonderland. 

He zoomed through traffic, Christmas carols filling the car. They're jazz versions, which explains his deviation from the normal versions when humming that morning, and I realized I didn't know much about what kind of music he listens to. He's tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel to the beat, a hum escaping his lips as he really gets into the music. 

Then he swerves into a parking space and kills the engine, turning to me as the engine cools. 

"I hope you can skate."

And then I see where we are. 

The Figeroa ice rink in the heart of LA. Decorations are hung around, Christmas lights blinking as laughing couples and children round the ice without a care in the world. I grin up at Vaughn, tears pinching the edges of my eyes as he takes my hands in his and rubs circles on my palms. 

"I thought a change of venue was in order. No hockey sticks."

I sniffled. "I kinda liked them." 

He laughs and pulls his keys from the ignition, pushing open his door. "They're in the trunk, if you really want"

"No! This is," I thought for a moment, then gave him a full blown genuine smile. "Perfect."

He pulled himself from the car and half-jogged to my side, leaning on the door as I opened it and stepped a leg out. He held a hand out for me, his head leaning slightly to the side as he beamed down at me, green eyes twinkling. 

"Shall we?"

I grasped it as if holding on for dear life and allowed him, for once, to pull me up, to help me without any resistance or need to show strength. With the lit rink behind us, adorned with wreaths and lights, happiness oozing from it as laughter and kindness came from it, I sighed happily. 

"We shall."  



	11. 12 Days of Christmas, Part 4

**Title**: Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Fluff  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.

---  


**Part Four:** Four Calling Birds  
  
_On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me:  
4 Calling Birds  
3 French Hens  
2 Turtle Doves  
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree_  
  
  
Sometimes I feel like my childhood was shorter than it should have, that, like an alien, I grew faster and reached maturity at a multiplied rate. Literally, I did, my mother's death shooting me from a five year old happy girl with lace dresses and dolls to a mature girl who packed her own lunch and checked in on her father on the nights he was home. I never had the large family parties; no one celebrated the milestone of my 16th birthday and the ability to drive on my own. I'd taken the bus to the DMV and gotten it myself, my handwriting sharp and clear on the paperwork.   
  
I lived envious of others with their smiling families. My father never came to the events and plays I was in during high school, never paid attention to my report card or scholastic achievements. I was alone, an island isolated from the world.   
  
So, I hadn't been skating for years. The one time at the rink barely counted, I'd been called away before ten minutes had passed and had only just found my footing. It was amazing how easily things came to me, and skating wasn't any different.   
  
But Vaughn, wow. He was like a bird on the ice, skating and spinning like he'd been born with skates instead of feet. In the time it took me to lace the beat up rentals, the dark grey skin on them scuffed and scratched, he'd rounded the rink at least three times, huge grin on his face as he weaved in and out of slower skaters with ease.   
  
"Hey!" he grinned, skidding to a stop just in front of me. Ice shavings sprayed off onto the black rubber as he stepped onto it and towered over me. "You've got to get out there, it's awesome."   
  
I laughed and finished double tying the laces, peering up at him through my lashes. His face was windblown, his cheeks red and rosy as he sniffled and rubbed the bottom of his nose with his hand.   
  
"You're like speed racer out there," I commented, standing. I wobbled a bit, ankles taking a moment to get used to the blades, Vaughn's arm shooting out to steady me, as cold as ice.   
  
"Yeah, well, I've got a bit of practice," he grinned sheepishly. "Ready?"   
  
I nodded, my hand slipping easily into his. He pulled on it slightly, leading me to the ice. My ankles buckle a bit, but I easily fell into the swing of things, slowly circling the ice hand in hand with my boyfriend. Scenes from countless romantic comedies pour into my head; never once had I believed I'd actually be able to act one of them out.   
  
My own fairy tale.   
  
The Brothers Grimm always had grotesque villains and complicated, depressing storylines. I'd like to think my own life is that kind of fairy tale, and I've come through to the happy ending. Girls can take their fluffy tales of a prince in shining armor and a white horse. I'll take my sleep-deprived government employee any day.   
  
I frowned. Wasn't there one final confrontation with the evil villain at the end of their tales? Right when life was perfect and happy? He or she would show up out of the blue and throw life off-balance for one last fight. And didn't someone die in their tales?   
  
"What's wrong?"   
  
I looked up at Vaughn, his gaze set on me and not where we're going, yet still able to guide us around the curve of the ice rink without a hitch.   
  
"Sometimes I wonder if this is too good to last," I confessed. "You know what they say, 'too good to be true.' I've wanted to be normal for so long, I don't even know how to feel."   
  
"Tell me something," he said. "What is everyone else doing?"   
  
I glanced around the rink quickly, taking in the happy couples and laughing children. No one's sad or worried, their thoughts aren't on unfinished projects at work or hanging deadlines. The bills were tucked away home in desk drawers and organizers and money wasn't an issue.   
  
"They're all doing the same thing as us," he supplied, swirling around to skate backwards, hands holding mine. Our speed slowed, the part of me constantly craving adrenaline saddened by the change in pace. "Normal people doing normal things, right?"  
  
I nodded dumbly.   
  
"I'd think that anyone walking by would think we're just as normal as them," he continued, grinning as he swerved around a family of four. "Wouldn't you agree?"  
  
"Yeah…"  
  
"Good. Normality's a state of mind, anyway," he said cryptically. "Like sane. Or ordinary. Or good. At…things." It was obvious he had a strong starting point but had lost it by the time he'd reached the end, his brow furrowing as he attempted to pick it up again. Of course, he wasn't paying attention to where he was going, his mind deep in thought as he idly skated backwards, and I was amazed we didn't run into anyone.   
  
Then the curve came.   
  
"Vaughn!" I cried, but too late. He snapped back to reality just in time to barrel into the scarred white wall of the rink, sliding down onto the ice with the grace that comes with years and years of ice-related accidents. I ran right into him, falling practically atop him at the crook of the curve, hands splashed on either side of him. The ice bit into them, and I yelped before jumping, hands now resting flat on his chest.   
  
"Oh my God, are you all right?"   
  
He laughed and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "Just my pride," he replied. "What about you?"  
  
"Fine. I've had worse, really."   
  
"I believe it," he remarked, sliding up into a sitting position. I found myself straddling his legs, knees digging into the ice.   
  
"What about you?"  
  
"Hrm?" His lips pursed into a flat line on his frost-tinted face.   
  
"Oh, c'mon, Vaughn, I'm sure you've gotten hurt while skating before."  
  
He blushed and shifted, hands unaffected by the freezing slab of ice. He pushed up on them, expecting me to move and allow him to get up, but I stayed still, head cocked to the side as I awaited an answer.   
  
"Syd, I'm freezing here," he practically whined. I found it strange, and slightly appealing, his mood shift. At work, he could be precise, to the point, demanding and closed off. His patriotism was worn on his sleeve, displayed for all to see and take at face value. He wore it like a badge of honor, some selfish fact of elitism he carried with him in the same pocket as the memories of his dead father. It was this persona I fell in love with, the shining moments of truth and humor he allowed me to see only sealing the deal.   
  
Here, now, sitting on an ice rink in downtown Los Angeles was something I cherished. Him. Perfect and open. His heart sat over his armband of patriotism, his face always cheerful and grinning. It was as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he was ready to spend all his waking moments working on making me content and happy. It was for that reason I knew I could trust him. Depend on him in my moments of need without worrying about the repercussions.   
  
I put on a pouting face and slid my hands down to rest on his thighs. I could trust him to the ends of the earth, but didn't know much about him past what small bits of his past shot through his shield. It was unfair. Totally unfair. He probably had a file five inches thick on me in his office and I had a few measly scraps.   
  
"I'm not the most coordinated person, Syd," he responded, rubbing the bottom of his nose. "Why do you think I'm stuck behind a desk most of the time?"   
  
"You seem fine in the field," I frowned, confused.   
  
"It's just because I have the best field agent in fifteen years as my back up," he laughed. "I've had lots of accidents on the ice. Let's just leave it at that."   
  
And he tried to get up again. Won't this man ever learn?   
  
"Why do you say you're not coordinated?"   
  
He sighed and ran a hand down his face, frustrated. Wait a second –   
  
"You're just saying that so I'll let you up!"   
  
Vaughn gave a 'who, me?' look of innocence and held up his hands in surrender, palms red from sitting on the ice for so long. I playfully punched him in the chest and pushed myself up in one motion, skating backwards a bit and narrowing a collision with a small boy who obviously had more experience on the ice than me. Vaughn used the gray marked white wall to push himself up, giving a low whistle when he saw the damage to the temporary barrier our run-in had caused. With more confidence than before, I skated up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.   
  
"Smooth, Agent Vaughn," I whispered in his ear. He turned slightly, giving the slight smile that alluded to something bigger going on in his head.   
  
"I'm an icicle."  
  
"Who's fault is that?"   
  
"Yours."  
  
Did he just blame me? He just blamed me, didn't he.   
  
"Uh-uh."  
  
"There was this one time," he started, hand snaking up to grip the one I'd laid on his shoulder. "When I couldn't really skate. I'd been climbing trees with friends, trying to find the best one for a tree house. My dad had promised to build us one when he came home next."  
  
He paused and pulled on my hand, bringing us back into the steady flow of traffic lethargically circling an oval center where children danced and played on narrow skates. Our hands were cold, unprepared for the low temperatures radiating off the slab of artificial ice, but I tightened my grip on his, feeling the warmth return to my stiff fingers as he squeezed it back.   
  
"You're doing better," he commented.   
  
"I've had a great teacher. Are you going to finish your story?"  
  
"What? Oh."   
  
"It's fine. I'm freezing, anyway," I replied quickly, noticing his crestfallen expression. We were out to have fun, to enjoy each other's company under the glow of the holiday spirit. To be normal for a night, and there was no way I was ruining that with my pestering curiosity.   
  
I tugged on his hand, leading him away from the swaying traffic to the break in the wall leading to a rubber landing and benches. And our shoes. He was reluctant at first, and I felt that the ice was just as liberating to him as a nice bubble bath was to me, but laughed at that mental picture. Apparently, we were more alike that I'd thought, and he eventually followed my lead off the ice.   
  
"I broke my leg," he said suddenly as I fell onto the bench, exhausted. My ankles were going to be burning the next day, that was for sure, years of stilettos unable to prepare them to cope with the twenty minutes of ice acrobatics I'd just performed. I looked up to him, following him with my eyes as he sat and began unlacing his skates.   
  
"Fell straight out of the tree. Nearly gave my mother a heart attack. My dad built the tree house but I couldn't go up in it for 6 weeks. It was torture, seeing it outside my window and not being able to go play. So, I convinced my dad I was feeling good enough to skate in some, I don't know, kid-logic to let me climb into the tree house with my friends."  
  
"Let me guess, you weren't exactly a star on the ice?" I asked, grinning. He slipped his feet into still shined dress shoes and bent down to help me untangle my laces.   
  
"No," he laughed, "I wasn't. Complete lack of coordination, and I broke down crying after five minutes." He fumbled with my laces as I tried to untie them myself.   
  
"I can untie my own skates," I growled lightly, pushing his hands aside.   
  
"Yeah, I'm sure you can. But if we want to get something to drink before the end of the night?"  
  
I playfully swatted his arm. "Did you get to play in the tree house?"   
  
"No. The skating set me back. By the time I was healed, school had stared."  
  
"That's too bad," I smirked, moving my attention to my other skate, leaving him to unlace the left one and pull it off my foot.   
  
"Yeah," he muttered. He was quiet, and I let him finish untying the skate and slip it off my foot. I fully anticipated him slipping my gym shoes back on and become my Prince Charming through a reenactment of Cinderella. Instead, he patted my knees and threw the guarded and tied together skates over his shoulder. "I'm going to go put these in the car. Meet you in the Starbucks?"  
  
I tried to hide my disappointment as he motioned to the corner cafe and set off for the car, leaving me to put my shoes alone without a prince to slip the glass slipper on and whisk me away to his castle. He disappeared around the corner, and I felt the temperature drop a few degrees with his absence. Pulling my coat tighter around me, I headed across the park to the Starbucks, eyes scanning the crowd unconsciously. I felt unusually exposed walking in downtown LA alone, the moment of normality and forgetfulness left behind on the rink.   
  
I tossed a look at it over my shoulder, the people still skating around, colorful scarves swaying in their own artificial wind as smiling faces sped around. Once again it was the scene in a film, and I, a simple viewer. Sighing, I grasped the handle to the cafe and yanked it toward me, resigned to sit alone and wait.   
  
And how bored was I? Leaning my head on my hand, I stared out the window with half-open eyes, mesmerized by a family struggling to get skates on their youngest child who looked more than a little frightened of the ice.   
  
"Cinnamon, right?" A voice purred in my ear like liquid chocolate. My eyes widened as I turned. Had I been so completely wrapped up in watching the skaters across the way that I hadn't heard anyone else enter the cafe?   
  
Apparently, I had, because standing over me was Vaughn holding two tall, no, grande hot chocolates. At least I was assuming so when I took the one he was holding out to me and gave it a try. Ah, yes, it was. Complete with the cinnamon addition I loved so much, the taste reminding me of baking gingerbread men with my mother at Christmas when I was little. The cup warmed my hands as Vaughn sat down across from me and drank his own.   
  
"Let me guess, soy milk?" I mocked. He gave a fake laugh.   
  
"Haha. Very funny."  
  
"I call 'em as I see 'em. Weiss was right - you really are an easy target."  
  
"Trading gossip with the best and brightest, I see," he smoothly retorted, taking a sip of his own. "And no, it's a plain hot chocolate with extra whipped cream."  
  
"Hallelujah," I grinned. He raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Questioning my masculinity? I'm wounded, Syd. My pride's still recovering from falling on the ice."  
  
"It was kinda funny."  
  
"Thanks," he replied dryly. "How's it going?"  
  
"Hrm? Fine. Why?"  
  
"You always wanted to be normal," he replied. "I just…I'm trying my best. I haven't exactly had the most normal life, but I've been closer than you. It is Christmastime, after all, and if you can't get your wishes now, when can you?"  
  
I swear, I had sparkles in my eyes. How incredible is this man? Not only does he have the best auditory memory for the small things I've ever encountered, but he goes out of his way to rectify the wrongs I've had with the small, quickly uttered solutions I'd blabbered between tears. I hadn't even thought of that, and that's what made his execution flawless. He brought me what I wanted so smoothly I didn't even notice, like they were parts of my life that I'd had all along.   
  
"And what's your wish?" I asked in return. It was only fair.   
  
"To be with you. I thought that was obvious," he stated honestly.   
  
"There has to be something more, Vaughn. You had to have wishes before you met me."  
  
"Sure I did." He glanced out the window, then back to me. "I still do. They're just…unimportant."  
  
"Why would you think that?" I inquired, leaning forward. Was he really that selfless as to disregard what he was feeling, wishing for, just to make sure I was content and happy? We all have a degree of selfishness inside all of us, and I'm worried because I've yet to discover his.   
  
I waited for his answer, but never heard it, both our pagers going off in a stereo symphony of punctuated beeping, blending in with the beat of the mellow Christmas carols pouring from the overhead speakers. Conversation and surroundings forgotten, we checked the displays and sighed at the same time.   
  
"I swear, I haven't had a full day to myself in…years," I remarked, stretching my arms above my head. Vaughn nodded in agreement and stood, grabbing my hands from behind my chair and planting a kiss upon my lips. They tasted like his extra whipped cream – light and sweet, his tongue warm like hot chocolate. His kiss lasted longer than I expected, but I'm not one to complain about such things.   
  
Eyes grinning when he pulled away, I finally stood and took another sip of my drink, hoping to recapture his warm taste with my own confection. He pointed to it as he pulled his keys from his coat pocket.   
  
"I have a new appreciation for cinnamon."   
  
I laughed.   
  
––-  
  
"Simple reconnaissance," Kendall classified it as, throwing the folder to me a little harsher than necessary. Was it my fault he was here this late? No. So there was no need for him to take his anger out on those of use who had a life outside the JTF and the world of international espionage no matter how much he didn't want us to.   
  
"Chance Gunther, bankroller for Bank Austria. Recently, the bank opened a branch in Switzerland promising the highest security for the more shady of clients. We'd like for you to go in and evaluate his security systems."  
  
"Any specific reason?" I asked.  
  
"He already has contracts with several men on our most wanted list, including Arvin Sloane. Getting information on his security before the bank is opened could save us time and intel in the future."  
  
"Why not take Gunther down now before anything's placed in his care?" Vaughn piped up next to me.   
  
"Marshall has op tech. Place bugs and cameras and come home."  
  
I sighed and leaned back in my chair, glancing over to Vaughn with a despondent look on my face. This certainly put a kink in our Christmas plans, a huge, mission-oriented one that I'm sure the normal people at the ice rank didn't have.   
  
I could literally feel the Christmas spirit leaking from me as my arms hung over the sides of my chair, the feeling of the season dripping from my fingertips onto the floor. Vaughn grasped my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.   
  
"Don't worry," he remarked, smirking, "I hear Switzerland's wonderful this time of year."  
  
Right. But not as wonderful as drinking hot chocolate with you. 

---

**Reader Responces:**

I'm starting with the last few chapters. 

**anonymousthinker: **Wow! Thanks for the compliment and the boost in reviews. *hugs*

**minirussel**: Hrmm...never really thought about that. Mostly because I wanted to stay in the magical, happy world of late season 2 with these tales. But I'll consider it. 

**Star16**: Aww! Thanks! The idea came from a friend of mine, actually. I thought it was too cute to not write. 

**xanya-forever**: Hehe. That's so nice to say! Hehe. I know it's shyed away from that, but don't worry, you'll find out soon enough. And no, she hasn't given him the number yet. *wink*

**OHM**: *hugs* Hey there! I'm glad I did. These are pick me ups. We need them with the current storyline...

**Cara**: *blushes* Thank you!

**Erin**: That's what it's here for!

**Liz**: Oh, I plan to keep going.

**supergirl14**: Ma'am!

**Twinnie**: Hey! You're alive! I hope you can keep reading the chapters. 

Remember, more reviews means faster chapters!

  



	12. 12 Days of Christmas, Part 5

**Title**: Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Fluff  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.  
**Author's Note**: Thank you, every single one of you, for your kind reviews. I never thought this little series would gain so much interest, and I'm eternally greatful for your comments. I'm hoping to get an update out a day now, so I can finish for Christmas and spend the rest of break working on my other major fic, Chronic Vertigo. 

----

  
**Part Five: 5 Golden Rings**

_On the fifth day of Christmas  
my true love sent to me:  
5 Golden Rings  
4 Calling Birds  
3 French Hens  
2 Turtle Doves  
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree_

The view out the window looked like a Swiss Miss box, and I fully expected to see a girl with twin braids standing on the edge of one of the majestic mountains the plane skimmed over yodeling with a group of mountain goats gathered around her. We swooped in closer, the loudspeaker above us announcing our final descent into Zurich Airport. How I loved taking the streamline jets of the CIA instead of the crowded commercial flights SD-6 always put me on. I rubbed my hands up and down the smooth cream leather of the seats in appreciation and smiled, resisting an urge to swing my feet and braid my hair like the Swiss Miss girl. 

Actually, that wouldn't be such a bad idea. 

Grinning mischievously, I leapt up from my seat and scurried across the cabin, fully aware of Vaughn's eyes following me, wide with surprise and puzzlement. I shuffled through the contents of my overnight bag, pulled two innocent and brightly colored hair bands from it, and held them triumphantly in my hand as I plopped down on the floor at Vaughn's feet. 

"Well, hello there," he commented down to me, shoving the files he's been reading over off his lap and into the vacant chair next to him. I held the hair bands up to him and crossed my legs to sit Indian style. 

"Here."

He laughed and took them from me, fingers brushing mine as he did so. I turned and held back my laughter as he turned them over in his hands as if they were alien artifacts, stretching them like rubber bands. He scoffed and looped one behind his thumb, then over his forefinger and aimed his hand towards the wall and got a serious look on his face. 

"Bang!" he grinned, shooting it across the cabin and into the wall. It clanged, the metal part hitting the formed plastic. He looped the other one around his hand and moved to shoot it as well when I reached up and clasped both my hands around his, effectively stopping him. 

"I need to fit in."

"With who?"

"The Swiss Miss girl," I replied. "She has pigtail braids."

"I only have one ponytail holder," Vaughn stated, rolling it between his fingers. I frowned and pointed across the small cabin. 

"You shot the other across the room."

"It was blue."

I wasn't following his train of thought and let my eyes search for the blue ponytail on the other side of the cabin. "So?"

"This one's red."

"Need another red one?"

"A green one, please. And then you can tell me what exactly you'd like me to do with them." 

I grinned and stood, headed for my overnight case once again, wondering exactly how many hair ties I'd brought and if I did, in fact, have a green one nestled in between hotel sized bottles of my favorite shampoo and my toothbrush. I pushed them aside as I reached for the one green one in the bag, and pulled it out, holding it above my head. I walked back to where I was seated and sat back down. 

"I already told you, Vaughn. Braid my hair."

He took the green holder from me and sat back in his chair, then leaned forward again and sighed. 

"How hard can it be?" he muttered. I turned around, mouth wide. 

"You don't know how?"

"It's not like I had anyone to do it to. Or any reason, for that matter," he defended himself, hands held up in surrender. My gaze sharpened in disbelief, and he tugged on a short lock of hair atop his own hair. "Not exactly long enough." I was just about to untangle myself and find someone else on the plane with this basic knowledge when the edge of his lips tugged up, alluding to a smile hiding underneath. I playfully slapped his knee. 

"You liar!"

He simply laughed, the sound washing over me in a waterfall of liquid dark chocolate; rich, dark, and mysterious as he leaned down and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me up into his lap with strength I hadn't seen him use before and wondered if his later mornings at work had given him time to up his time at the gym. I grinned up at him, the Swiss Alps the perfect backdrop behind his face as he leaned over and planted a sweet, innocent kiss upon my lips. I giggled against his and looped my arms around his neck, ready to deepen it an - 

"We're landing in five minutes."

I growled at the speaker connecting us to the cockpit as Vaughn pulled away, flushed, and moved to collect his previously discarded pile of papers and intel. I pouted, my hands still securely latched behind his neck. 

"You didn't braid my hair."

"I don't think," he paused, picked up one of the files and read the name off the front, "Marion Schwartz would be the kind of woman to wear braids."

"I could say she simply got into the Christmas spirit," I countered. 

"International bankers don't get into the holiday spirit. Trust me on this one." 

I raised an eyebrow and slid over into the seat next to him, effectively blocking his attempts to at least act professional. Sitting on the files, and, in addition, his hand, I smirked up at him. 

"And you know this how?" 

"Uncle Robert stopped buying Christmas gifts at 5 years old. He was 'busy with work'." His voice deepened when he quoted his uncle, tone mocking. 

"Yeah, I know that one," I sighed, remembering the holidays after my mother's 'death' and the lack of time I spent with my father during the Christmas season. The man whom had previously celebrated with cheer and mountains of presents under the tree morphed into a modern-day scrooge who rarely found time in his busy schedule to even be home on Christmas Eve. "All the more reason to give me some!" 

He gave me a sideways look. I would have to do some pretty hefty convincing. 

"I have a hat. I could hide them under the hat!"

"You have a ski hat," he pointed out. "Might clash with your pantsuit. Speaking of that, you might want to get changed." 

I frowned. He reached out with his free hand and planted a thumb and index finger on either side of my lips and lifted them into a smile, then let go. 

It faltered. 

He frowned, forehead wrinkling. "After the mission, I will braid your hair."

I have him so whipped, it's funny. He's so sweet, though, and gullible.

"And then, we can have a pillow fight and paint each other's nails!" he continued, grinning. I glared and swatted his arm. He's been around wisecracking Weiss too much; he's been infected with snappy comebacks and sarcasm. He mock pouted and pointed to the bathroom behind us. 

"Just go change." 

I huffed and stalked off. 

  
Bathrooms aren't soundproof, and as I tried to orient myself properly inside the small stall, I wondered once again why the hell I was stuck in here changing instead of out in the cabin. I can understand Vaughn's preoccupation with keeping me all to myself, but international criminals had seen me in less than this, and a wandering pilot taking a small siesta from his duties wasn't a huge concern of mine when it came to changing. Still, he'd insisted I'd change where prying eyes couldn't see and left it at that. It was an argument I wasn't going to win, and he did have a point - I didn't particularly like other people seeing me in anything less than a full outfit, but the job called for it at times, and I was nothing if now committed to it. 

It just meant I couldn't put on a show for him and watch his face turn an inhuman shade of red. He's so shy, it's like a large bulls eye is plastered on his forehead with the message 'embarrass here' written in black letters across it. 

But as I said, the bathroom isn't soundproof, and I could hear his cell phone ring as the plane jolted, wheels bouncing on the runway beneath us. He groaned and answered it with a joyful 'hello'. Must be Weiss, I thought, and went back to the task at hand. Then:

"You what? Weiss! You - she's not supposed to know!" 

I looked up at this, wondering a. why he was yelling so loud, and b. what I wasn't supposed to know. We'd already had this conversation, about secrets between us, and I could feel my blood begin to boil as he went on. First, talking to Will about something, and now this. With more force than necessary, I buttoned the front of my suit coat and growled under my breath. The guilt from selectively forgetting to pass on the piece of paper Weiss had given me melted away, and my curiosity - the reason I'd kept it - seemed well placed now. 

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine. I'llI'll figure something out," he continued as I slipped on my shoes. Now I was even glad I was forced to change inside this bathroom that had to have been designed around someone smaller than normal people - maybe a kid or something. Because it wasn't to scale. Really. 

There was a pause, a sharp intake of breath, and then: "Yeah, I'll tell you everything when we get back. Justyou've got to swear to me you won't tell anyone - especially Sydney." Pause. "Right. I'll remember that. Bye, Eric."

Well, then. I guess if he was going to be like that, I could forget about spending the holidays with him. 

  
"Okay, Syd, you'll do wonderfully, and then we can go home. It's too cold here."

He'd been irked by the silent van ride to the bank, and was trying extra hard to get back in my good graces. I was perfectly fine with the silence and was trying to figure out what was going on. 

I came to a conclusion as I opened the passenger door and flashed him a flirtatious smile - he'd never do anything intentional to harm me. If he was keeping something from me, it was because he wanted to surprise me and not in a bad break up kind of way. The evidence, while it could be taken in bad light in parts, made sense this way when put in context. He was talking to Will - someone he'd go to when he wanted to know my reaction to something. Weiss wasn't in on it for a while and he's a blabbermouth. And he was talking about having a delivery on Christmas day. 

No, Vaughn was crafting something for me and hadn't remembered his girlfriend was an international super spy. His skills were far from mine, the poor man, no matter how hard he tried. Plus, this would make for great fun. 

I smiled as I approached the front of the building, impressed with the tall glass front yet confused as they were supposed to keep things secret yet made it so the whole world could look in. "Cold? Didn't you grow up somewhere around here?" 

"Does that mean I have to like it? It's freezing in this van," he whined. 

"At least you don't have to wear a skirt outside."

"Point made."

Good. I could just see him, sitting in the back of the van in a warm winter coat with the heat running full blast as he sat in front of a bank of monitors.

"You never told me your wish, Vaughn," I switched the subject, pulling open one of the heavy glass doors. I marched up to the counter, assertive, and smiled at the secretary behind the desk. 

"It's a secret. You're on," he replied. Leave it to him to use the mission as an excuse to avoid my question. Holding in the desire to chide him for his secret keeping (in more way than one), I announced myself to the secretary. 

"Marion Schwartz," I said in my best New Yorker accent. "I have an appointment with Chance Gunther..."

  
I hate airplanes. 

Two flights in one day didn't seem justified by the information I'd been able to gather on the elusive international banker. And while we did have a valuable back door into his computer systems and records, I liked seeing immediate results to our holes in Sloane's armor. Long-term was fine, and something I understood, I just liked knowing what I was doing was doing something. Planting bugs and back door patches to programs felt like a waste of time, and probably would until we actually got to use them. They had yet to prove their worth to me.

"What did they say again?" 

Vaughn shifted. "Refueling. Going to take another half hour or so."

"I thought it took shorter than that."

"There's a line."

"What, is there an embargo on airplane gas over here?"

"I really don't know the answer to that question."

I sighed and pulled my jacket closer around me. "And why can't we go eat or something?" 

Vaughn groaned and ran a hand down his face before turning to me. "We'd get halfway through our meal and be called away. Plus, I didn't exactly bring that much money." 

"You know more than anyone that credit cards work overseas," I shot back, expecting a witty retort. Instead, he blanched and mumbled something about 'limit' and 'exceeded' while he bashfully turned his head, finding something about the fountain standing to our left. I poked his arm. 

"You're not the only one with credit cards. I'm _hungry_. We could hop out for some fast food or something." 

He said nothing, just fiddled with his thumbs like I'd just called him into the pricipal's office and was about to scold him for something. And for as much as I'd liked too, I kept my mouth shut and leaned my head on his shoulder as we walked down a Niederdorf on the east bank of the Limmat River, his hand snaking around my waist as we passed cafés and tiny shops filled with all kinds of trinkets.

He was right when he said Switzerland in winter was breathtaking. The Alps were a gorgeous backdrop to the lit-up city, the life flowing in and out of the alleyways almost pulling us with it. We remained alone in our own little world, grinning and chatting with each other as we walked the streets as normal tourists. 

"Let's sit down for a moment," Vaughn finally remarked, leading me to a nearby empty bench. I complied, but felt for my legs that would soon be freezing from sitting on the vacant bench. Instead, I was pleasently surprised as Vaughn took a seat and pulled me onto his lap, hands running down through my hair. 

"Vaughn," I warned him testliy as his fingers continued to work through my locks, scratching at my scalp as he moved away from the ends. I closed my eyes and concidered leaning into him when I felt half my hair being pushed over my shoulder and the other being pulled. 

"What are you doing?" I asked. 

"Braiding your hair," he replied, weaving strands of my hair together as if he'd been doing it every day of his life, fingers working expertly as they looped and hooked hair. 

"What about the hair ties?" 

"In my pocket, well, around my wrist now. I can litterally feel my masculinity declining."

I decided not to gace that with a comment and enjoy his work instead. The band snapped on one pigtail braid within another minute, and he shifted me on his lap to work on the other side. 

"Tell me about your favorite Christmas," he whispered. 

"Hrmm," I started, feeling a little put on the spot. "I had to be about five. Mom was cooking all kinds of cookies in the kitchen and my father was chasing me around the living room because I'd stolen one before it had finished cooling."

"I can see that."

"He just wanted the cookie for himself - Mom had given it to me because I was cute, but refused to let him have any. Well, I decided to take a detour around the back of the tree in the corner and"

"Oh no"

"Fell right over onto the coffee table," I laughed, leaning up to look at Vaughn's profile as I felt his laughter under my arms. He pushed my head back to where it had been and finished up. "Broke it right in half. Never stood straight after that."

"Did he get his cookie?"

"Casualty of the fallen tree," I replied promptly. "But it was a great Christmas. I think the imperfection of the tree made it morespecial. Mom came out and gave us a whole plate of cookies to snack on while she straightened out the tree. I sat on the floor next to my dad and we finished the whole plate - she hadn't expected that, and said we got no more cookies."

"Christmas isn't Christmas without home baked cookies," Vaughn pointed out. I nodded and grinned. He patted the top of my head and sat back on the bench as I ran my hands down the braids, the weaves perfect and proportionate. 

"True. So my father and I snuck down in the middle of the night to make another batch for her. Well, my father's no chief - "

Vaughn's cell phone rang and vibrated in his coat pocket, causing the both of us to jump in surprise and fly apart. He grinned sheepishly and answered it. I sat looking expecting at him, wondering who was on the other end, but all he said was 'okay' and disconnected. 

"Plane's ready."  



	13. 12 Days of Christmas, Part 6

Title : Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas   
Author : Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]   
Genre : Romance/Fluff   
Rating : PG-13   
Disclaimer : We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.   
Author's Note : Thank you, every single one of you, for your kind reviews. I never thought this little series would gain so much interest, and I'm eternally greatful for your comments. 

* * *

Part Six: 6 Geese a Laying   
  
On the sixth day of Christmas my true love sent to me:   
6 Geese a Laying   
5 Golden Rings   
4 Calling Birds   
3 French Hens   
2 Turtle Doves   
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree   
  
  
"Sweetie, I know you just got back from another business trip, but I have to go to the restaurant tonight. This huge food critic from the Times will be there, and this could – "   
  
I waved her off from where I lay on the couch, head propped up with a gold-accented throw pillow as I read a book nestled on my lap. "Don't worry about it, Francie," I interrupted, leaning up to look at her over the back of the couch.   
  
"I do! I'm really sorry – I'll try to be back as soon as I can."   
  
"Don't rush, really. I'm not in a position to be angry with you running off," I countered, flashing Francie a smile. "I know you'll get a good review."   
  
"Oh, you're such a sweetheart," Francie gushed, moving into the living room and giving me a fast hug. "I'll be back as soon as I can," she repeated, and rushed out the door in a flurry like a departing snowstorm. As soon as the door closed, clicking the apartment into a welcomed silence, I fell back onto my strategically placed pillows and sighed at the ceiling as if it would give me the answers to all the troubled thoughts roaming in my head. It was nice to get a little time off, even if I knew I'd be back at work the next day, and I fully intended to spend it alone in my apartment, reading and relaxing.   
  
Oh, a bubble bath was calling my name.   
  
I giggled, yes, giggled, and covered my mouth with my hand even though there was no one else around to hear me. The thought of a bubble bath had been forever tainted for me, and I doubt if I'd ever be able to think about one again without the mental image of Vaughn relaxing in one. That, and the activities later on that night, which were not as funny, but equally as entertaining.   
  
The book I was reading was boring, anyway, just something I'd randomly plucked off my shelf to keep me occupied while taking a break from life on my overstuffed couch. It was a book bought for me as a present, probably from someone who didn't know me that well, as the subject matter was the kind that I'd never read even if forced to. Like now. Groaning, I tossed it to the coffee table and threw an arm over my eyes.   
  
"Hey, you're back!"   
  
I moved my arm and popped open one eye a fraction of an inch. "Hey, Will."   
  
"You look exhausted," he replied, sitting on the back of the couch, a mug of coffee held in one hand. I shrugged and pushed myself into a sitting position, eyeing his coffee. Oh, that would be so nice…   
  
"Mine," he said, smiling. He held the mug close to him as if it were a precious teddy bear, my perchance for stealing coffee from unsuspecting males known, apparently, because he backed away and darted for the kitchen before I could even get up.   
  
"There's more of that, right?" I called, lazily rounding the couch after him. He smirked up at me as he poured a cup from a freshly brewed coffeepot of live-giving caffeinated coffee. How had I not smelled that sitting and reading? Was I that tired? He handed the cup off to me.   
  
"You know what this house is missing?" he asked.   
  
I took a sip of the coffee and let it take action before replying. "What?"   
  
"A tree. You don't have a tree."   
  
"When have I had time to put up a tree?" I commented. "Kendall won't even give me vacation."   
  
"Really?"   
  
I narrowed my eyes and took another drink to keep me from growling. "Don't tell me you got time off."   
  
"Actually, I did."   
  
I don't think I threw many temper tantrums as a child. I'd like to think I was a calm, good child who always listened to her parents. Forget recent events of disobeying my father and his directives, as those are rights that come as an adult. But I don't think I've ever stopped in the middle of the toy store and thrown a tantrum on the floor or cried in the middle of a crowded mall walkway. But now this was my kitchen, and I was jumping up and down, thankful I had taken some sips of coffee before doing so.   
  
"I can't believe this!" I think I shouted a few times as I jumped. Will put a hand on my shoulder, laughing, and held me in place.   
  
"Calm down, Syd. I'm sure you'll get – "   
  
"No! No I won't! This is my first Christmas since…since…and – "   
  
"Okay, we need to get you a tree right now," he declared. "Grab your coat, we're going out to get one."   
  
I sobered up and sniffled. "A real one?"   
  
"Yes, a real one. I hate those fake trees."   
  
"Yeah, me too."   
  
"So let's go," he ordered, marching me over to get my coat. I stomped along, wondering if tree lots were still open at 9pm, and figured even people who worked had to get trees, and even if not, it's not like it was hard to operate a tree lot. But in LA? Where do they grow?   
  
I had a feeling Will had planned this out before hand and scoped out the best lots, because within five minutes, we were parked outside a large, crowded lot hung with colorful lights and an inflated snow man standing at the entranceway. I grinned, glancing over at Will before climbing out of the car and running excitedly to the lot, feet crunching over fake snow sprinkled along the lot's ground, glitter twinkling under blinking lights. Will came up to my side, hand on my arm as he led me past the shack that served as the operations building for this little lot of trees, and pushed me past excited families and grinning couples.   
  
Couples.   
  
Was this how Vaughn was going to feel while he was off for the holidays and I was at work? Alone, sad, and wishing there was something he could do to break me out of the mundane rotundra? My steps slowed as I idly flicked at tree branches, Will's endless chattering about the several different types of trees started sounding more and more like the parents on the Charlie Brown Christmas special I'd seen parts of earlier in the day as my thoughts wandered to those of a less cheerful variety.   
  
Vaughn was going to spend his holiday with his mother, Will with Francie's family – or was it his and he was bringing her with? Something like that. My father was the only other option, but he was Scrooge this time of year, and rarely, if ever, noticed the day was a holiday. He was most probably going to be at work with me, wondering why I was so down when I shouldn't be.   
  
"…and this is the – "   
  
"Hey! I'm not a tree!"   
  
That popped me out of my thoughts violently, my head whipping around to see who Will was speaking to (as well as poking).   
  
"I had a funny name and everything," Will pouted.   
  
"Hi, Syd."   
  
He's charming, he's gorgeous, and his smile, normally amazing, looked brilliant under the dancing Christmas lights and a sprinkle of fake fluffy snow, sparkling like a star from above itself. Michael Vaughn is certainly a gift from heaven, at least for me, and I threw myself into his arms wholeheartedly, the dismal thoughts of before melting away as he wrapped his arms around me.   
  
"I told you I'd get her here," Will commented over my head. Vaughn gave a chuckle and ran a hand down my hair.   
  
"Thanks," he replied. Oh, wait! This meant Will was going to be alone, effectively ditched. I spun around and caught his arm.   
  
"Wait! You don't have to go, really, Will – "   
  
He smirked. "Actually, I'm meeting Francie for dinner. But, you two have fun."   
  
"We will, thanks, again, Will," Vaughn waved, pulling me back to his side. Will gave his timid wave and pushed through the fake snow back towards his car, shoulders high. Made me believe he wasn't lying, and thus, made me feel better about his part in this whole thing. Which reminds me…   
  
"What was that?" I asked, smacking his middle. He caught my hand and pulled me flush with him, a hand cupping my chin in one smooth movement, I could have sworn he was moving at super-human speeds.   
  
"What was what?" he whispered down to me. I bit my lip to keep from drooling all over our shoes.   
  
"That. Will. The trees."   
  
"Well, you need one, don't you?"   
  
"Yes, but – "   
  
He cut me off. Cut. Me. Off. If we were in traffic, I would have honked and swerved, attempting to keep myself from crashing him into the medium before continuing on my merry way. This method, which involved less traffic and more sweetness, was welcomed, and his hand on my chin slid behind my head to the base of my neck as he kissed me and I swear to God, I felt like the front of a Christmas card.   
  
Perfect, happy, content. Complete.   
  
"Wow," he whispered against my lips. I nodded dumbly in agreement and licked my lips, which only brought him in for a short tease, fingering my cheek as he lingered for just a moment, breath hot against my face.   
  
Forget the tree.   
  
"We came for a tree," he continues, grasping my hand in his.   
  
"Right."   
  
"So, let's get a tree."   
  
Well, the faster we get a tree, the faster we get back to my place, right?   
  
  
I don't know much about trees. They're green, and last time I checked, they were called evergreen trees. Or a pine tree. The exact name of the different varieties never came up in casual conversation before, and it's not the type of information you learn in an advanced literature class. So I'm going to say the tree Vaughn and I returned to my apartment with was an evergreen tree, short yet full, easily fitting on the roof of his government sedan. It was an odd sight; I'm sure, seeing a sleek black sedan with a pine tree latched to its roof.   
  
It was small enough to fit through the front door, a path of pine needles leading from the front foyer to a cleared area in the living room, the tree leaning up against the wall as Vaughn points out a flaw in our reasoning.   
  
"Do you even have a tree stand?" he asked me, leaning against the wall behind the tree. I leaned forward, parting branches as if uncovering a treasure deep in an evergreen forest, and nodded.   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Well, I'll watch the tree while you go find it."   
  
I let the branches swish back to their original positions and, hands on my hips, eyed the mess that was my living room and entrance way, footprints trailing over mounds of fallen pine needles leading all the way to the tree. I turned back to it, then returned to the mess.   
  
"The tree will be fine," I told him. "You clean up in here, and I'll get the base."   
  
"Hey now - !" he started, but I fled the room, leaving him to clean on his own while I retrieved the tree base from the shelf above the washing machine. I felt like such a little kid, kneeling on top of the washer, my arms extended as fingers brushed the base. I launched forward, fingers tipping it over the side of the shelf and to the ground, the metal clattering against it as I spun and jumped off the washer.   
  
"Are you okay in there?"   
  
"Fine," I called back, collecting the base from the ground. As I walked back into the living room, I sighed, the base held between my hands as I examined a crack in the side. Great. Just great. "Here," I said, dejected, handing it off to Vaughn. He propped the broom he'd discovered in the kitchen against the wall near the fireplace and accepted the broken base, turning it over in his hands before giving me some sort of reassuring smile.   
  
"This is what happened, huh?"   
  
"Yeah."   
  
He smirked and motioned in the air with the base. "When I was…six, we got our first fake tree. Mom hated it. I mean, really hated it. She was old fashioned, liked her traditions – " he paused, thoughtful for a second, "still does, actually. Anyway, my dad was all excited. Plastic trees were the new thing, and he was all happy over being one of the first people with one. Well, he put it up and we decorated it, but the lights weren't made for plastic, and well…let's just say we had a small fire."   
  
"Your tree caught on fire?" I asked, laughing. He nodded.   
  
"Took all the lights off, but it was still charred, and leaning. So my dad turned the burnt part towards the wall and left it up, pride not allowing him to return it. Plus, getting a new tree would mean my mom won, and there were nothing if not constantly in competition with each other. We got a real one the next year, but that year, we had a crooked tree."   
  
"And Christmas was fine?"   
  
"More than fine. Dad said it added character. Now, granted if this thing still works for us." He smiled, motioning to the base in his hand, "your tree will have loads of character and nothing had to set on fire for that to happen."   
  
"If only I had a fake plastic tree…"   
  
"Too late for that. If I had to drag this in here, it's staying. Now, come help me with this – I've had a 2 foot plastic tree in my apartment for years now, so I'm a bit rusty when it comes to the real thing."   
  
I filed that away for future use, a bit sad that he'd celebrate Christmas in his cold apartment with only a miniature plastic tree and his dog. I'm sure he doesn't even have a single decoration up, unconcerned with such things. That, and his trip to his mother's probably made up for it, but I'd find it hard to get into the holiday spirit with a small fake tree.   
  
He stood waiting next to the tree, eyebrow raised as he wondered, I'm sure, what I was up to. I walked up to him, planted a quick kiss on his lips, and wrapped my hand around the tree's crown.   
  
"Ready?" I asked. He dropped in a heap of limbs and stretched out on his stomach under the tree, base held at the end of his outstretched arms.   
  
"Check."   
  
I lifted the tree clean off the ground and felt his hand grip the bottom and guide it, a thunk sounding when he had it secured in the base. I stepped back to admire the feat that was standing a tree while he remained underneath, tightening the clamps around the trunk. With a triumphant click of his tongue, he pushed out from under it and turned to me, smiling.   
  
"Straight?"   
  
"Not even close," I retorted, leaning my head to the side. It leaned. Terribly. Where it should have been straight, it was leaning severely to the right, into the wall, and I felt for it, and momentarily wondered where I could get it a cane of some kind.   
  
"Character. That, and it's a conversation piece," Vaughn said from the floor, still settled there on his stomach. Now he'd propped his head up with a hand, smiling with sparkling eyes reflecting the candle light burning on the mantle.   
  
"Just wait until Will and Francie get home. They're going to wonder what I did to the tree."   
  
"We need a fire."   
  
"What?" I asked. "I thought you said we could add conversation without setting anything on fire."   
  
"I meant in the fireplace. It's cold."   
  
"On the floor, maybe," I said. He motioned with a hand and flopped over onto his side, head falling to be pillowed by an outstretched arm. I put my hands on my hips and shook my head. "I can't leave the tree bare like that."   
  
His gaze flickered up the tree, then over and up me before it settled back on my face. "Why not?"   
  
"Why not? Are you insane?"   
  
"Only around you," he muttered. I huffed and tapped my foot. "What? It's true!"   
  
The man is insufferable. Certifiable, gullible, sweet-talking, handsome, and lying on my living room floor, beckoning me to join him and snuggle up in his arms, and I wanted to decorate a tree. Couldn't he appreciate the fact that once distracted from the task at hand, I'd never get back to it, and end up with a boring and bare tree come Christmas morning?   
  
I glared down at him with the full force of the Bristow glare, biting my lip to hold back a grin as he jumped and stood, rubbing his hands together nervously.   
  
"So," he said softly, "where are your règlages?"   
  
I cocked my head to the side and stifled laughter. "Excuse me?"   
  
"What?" he asked innocently. I let the smile I'd been hiding back loose and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him to my side.   
  
"Trimmings?" I translated, turning to look at his face, my nose pressing into his cheek. His tongue poked at my nose from the inside of his mouth as if I were some bug he was trying to get rid of.   
  
"Isn't that what they're called?"   
  
I lost it. Lost. It. As in collapsed on my couch and held my stomach as I laughed. My hair fell into my face, obscuring him from my sight as I continued to laugh. I heard him shift and sigh and could just see him running a hand through his disheveled locks in frustration, or even confusion. My laughter died down, leaving me lying prone on the couch, a leg and arm splayed off the edge of the couch, my hair tangled all around me. Vaughn was standing in front of the tree, puzzled.   
  
"Vaughn," I said calmly. "They're called ornaments. Or decorations."   
  
"I understand this is one of those situations where the words you have inside your family might not be – right."   
  
"Let me guess – "   
  
"My dad called them that, too," he interjected. "You're the first person to say something, you know."   
  
Awww. He was so cute when he was feeling a bit dejected, and I held both my arms up in the air and beckoned him over. He smirked and put his hands on his hips.   
  
"Are you insane?" he said, mocking my voice. "We have to decorate the tree."   
  
If I wasn't lying on the couch, I would have tackled him.   
  
Why should that stop me?   
  



	14. 12 Days of Christmas, Part 7

**Title**: Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Fluff  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.

--------

Part Seven: Seven Swans A-Swimming   
  
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me:   
Seven swans a-swimming,   
Six geese a-laying,   
Five golden rings,   
Four calling birds,   
Three French hens,   
Two turtle doves,   
And a partridge in a pear tree. 

"Vaughn! If you keep eating the popcorn, I won't have any left for the tree!"   
  
He sat cross-legged on one of the couch arms, a large light blue bowl on his lap with less popcorn in it than I'd have liked. Popping another handful of food intended to be a tree decoration into his mouth, he cocked his head to the side and gave me an innocent look as he munched on them.   
  
"Popcorn doesn't belong on trees," was all he said. I shook my head and continued draping a completed string of popcorn and cranberries over the highest of the branches.   
  
"And what did you put on your tree as a kid?" I asked of him, scrunching up my nose at an uncooperative piece of the strand, pushing it up around the branch in an effort to make it somewhat even. It didn't work, and I blew a strand of hair that had fallen in my face into the air before falling back onto the couch and grabbing some popcorn for myself.   
  
"Heirlooms. The kind you can't touch and would die if you broke," Vaughn explained, popping a kernal into the air and catching it in his mouth. "Hell, you'd die if you looked at them in the wrong way." He repeated the toss again, leaning back dangerously far on the couch edge to catch it.   
  
"Well, we always did this when I was younger," I stated as I threaded the needle and slid a cranberry down to the end. "Mom and I would sit in front of the tree and work on these for hours while dad begged her to let him put some real decorations on the tree."   
  
"Your father? Not getting his way?" Vaughn sounded surprised. "Your mother must ha – "   
  
And he stopped right there. Mouth shut and hands rested on either side of the bowl, a kernal pinched between his index finger and thumb on the hand closest to me. I stopped, letting the bag of cranberries fall into my lap, the open end spilling them over onto my pants and down to the floor.   
  
"What?" I asked.   
  
"Nothing. I just...wasn't thinking – "   
  
"Listen, Vaughn, it doesn't bother me, really."   
  
"It bothers me," he almost whispered. He let his chin fall to his chest, allowing it to rest there for a moment before raising it and sending me a smile. "Sorry. I can make you some more popcorn since I've eaten most of it." The smile deepened for a second as he untangled his legs and placed the large bowl on an endtable before stretching his arms above his head and eyeing the kitchen.   
  
I wasn't going to let him go, though. It was Christmas, of all the times of the year, and most certainly not the time in which such heavy thoughts should be contemplated. My hand reached out, fingertips brushing against his forearm, goosebumps rising over it as he turned, puzzled. He did not, however, move his arm. I smiled and reached out farther, gripping his arm in a tight grasp and pulling him down, tossing the needle and half-threaded cranberries over onto the coffee table.   
  
"Hi," I breathed down to him, collected in my lap as best he could be. His legs were kicked up over the edge of the couch, my left arm wrapped around his back, holding him up against me. His nose brushed against mine in an Eskimo kiss, breath hot on my face.   
  
"Hi there," he replied.   
  
"Listen. We need to talk about this."   
  
"No, we don't."   
  
I sighed and took a metaphorical step back from him, wishing to keep tree decorating a fun activity and keep him from becoming defensive. "All right. Just stop eating my popcorn, okay?"   
  
"Don't tell me you never ate the popcorn," he quipped, arm snaking around my neck, the other resting on his knee.   
  
"I did. I speak from experiance," I smirked. He nodded in understanding. "Want to help?"   
  
"I thought I was already."   
  
"Here," I dictated, handing him the half-empty bag of cranberries. He put them on one of his knees and looked up at me exectantly, following my hand as I reached behind him and retrieved my needle, putting it in his other hand. "Now, thread the needle through the middle."   
  
"I feel like Martha Stewart is going to jump out from the hallway," he commented offhand, threading a few cranberries.   
  
"She just might – you're supposed to do one cranberry, then one kernel of popcorn."   
  
"You just gave me the needle and expect me to have the exact science of this down?"   
  
I raised an eyebrow and looked up from my task of recovering the escaping cranberries. "Science?"   
  
"One cranberry, one popcorn thing. Leaves no room for variation."   
  
"Why, Michael Vaughn, are you, of all people, telling me to break the rules?"   
  
He held up his hands, needle in one making him appear domestic. "Hey now, when it comes to you, I can throw all the rules out the window."   
  
Vaughn really is incredibly sweet, and I tell him so by giving him a quick kiss. The hand behind my head pulled me forward into him, the needle and natural garland forgotten as he deepens the kiss, pulling me into him as if I'd fly away if he loosened his hold. I smile against his advance, the collected cranberries falling out of my hands as they round his back, spilling down it in a waterfall of red, my eyes closing –   
  
And then his damned cell phone rang.   
  
While most men would ignore the shrill set of notes, finding more entertainment and fulfillment in other activities involving their girlfriend and a nice couch, Vaughn is not most men, and he groans before falling backward off my lap. He lands like a cat, on his feet, and snatches the phone from his left jacket pocket, giving me a look of annoyance as he answers it.   
  
So he is like most men, except for the whole federal agent part.   
  
"Vaughn," he said curtly with just a hint of anger at the edge of his voice. I sighed and recollected the fallen cranberries, frowning at the three I found smashed on the carpeting. That wasn't going to come out easily, and I glanced up at Vaughn to clue him in to my domestic discomfort. He shook his head, giving a weak smile, and pointed to the kitchen before heading off in that direction.   
  
I scrambled to gather the rest of them, hoping there were enough left to finish the tree. It was already lopsided and only covering half of it with the garland would just be a death sentence to any kind of normal celebration around it.   
  
"Yes, mom," I heard from the kitchen. Grinning, I stood from behind the couch and watched him pace the small area that served as my kitchen. "No, wait – what?"   
  
He stopped in the middle of the room, hand rubbing his forehead. His eyes flickered to me for a second, worried, before he turned his back to me and retreated deeper into the kitchen.   
  
Oh, he wasn't going to get away with that. Armed with my bag of cranberries and the half-empty bowl of popcorn, I entered the kitchen and plopped the items down on the counter next to him, giving him a grin. He looked down at me, wondering why I was there, and I motioned to the cranberries before crouching down to dig through the cleaning supplies in search of some Resolve or carpet cleaner of some kind. If Francie came home and saw red blotches on the carpeting, she'd freak, something I wished to avoid at all times. With our friendship as shaky as it was because of the increased amount of secrets not only I had to keep, but Will as well, anything that sparked argument was damaging.   
  
Vaughn let out a sigh and hit his forehead against the wall with a thud. "Yeah, I'll – no, no, don't do that. I just have to figure something out." With the last part of his sentence, he snuck a glance over in my direction and lowered his voice. "But that thing is still on, right?"   
  
What thing? Still on? And what did that have to do with his mother?   
  
"I've got to go."   
  
He mumbled some more things into the phone, but had switched, for some reason, to French as his voice lowered and I swore he was talking into the wall. If he was trying to keep something from me before, he certainly was trying his hardest to do so now. And it wasn't all that covert – it was a horrible attempt. He mumbled a bit more, then hung up, closing his eyes as he still leaned against the wall, the phone falling to his side.   
  
"What's going on?" I asked, walking to his side, resting a hand on his shoulder. It was tense under my touch, muscles moving as he pulled his head from the wall and looked at me.   
  
"Sorry about that. Just some problem with transportation for Christmas," he answered. "Remember my nephew?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Well, there's a problem with their tickets, and my mom's worried they won't be able to make it down by Christmas."   
  
I really wanted to say something nice. Something hopeful about his nephew being able to make it, that fate would allow it. But something like that would only seal, in my mind, the fact that if that all happened, the chances of Vaughn sticking with me for Christmas would be next to none, and being alone was something I couldn't face at the moment.   
  
"I'm sure it will all work out," I said quietly.   
  
"He's going to love you," Vaughn commented offhand, rolling his shoulders. Wait – what?   
  
I took a step back, mouth open wide. "What?" was all I managed to croak. Right. A master's degree in literature and all I can manage is 'what'.   
  
"My nephew," he stopped, narrowing his eyes. "You seriously didn't think I wasn't going to take you with me when I went to my mother's?"   
  
"No," I said as if I were three inches tall, my hands suddenly extremely interesting. He laughed that short, small laugh he used when amused by something, and took my hands in his.   
  
"Of course I'm going to. Syd, I want nothing more than to spend Christmas with you."   
  
I nodded meekly.   
  
"After all this time, I can't believe you'd doubt that," he sighed, folding my hands between his. My attention was drawn to them like a train wreck, wide and shocked yet confused at the same time.   
  
Inside, I was dancing. Jumping up and down like I had when I got my first car. My first date. Any kind of milestone moment when intense joy was felt and jubilee was expected. Being the super spy I was, I kept it bottled up inside, years of being required to hide my emotions unbreakable by such a moment.   
  
"I just thought, with your mom, my mom – "   
  
A finger came up to rest just over my lips, the simple touch raising goose bumps on my arms and causing my heart to skip a beat. His own lips brushed my forehead, lingering there for just a second before he moved back, their imprint hot against my skin; a fading memory.   
  
"We can't change the past, so why worry about it? Yes, it's an issue, and yes, we should talk about it, but right now, we're going to enjoy Christmas. Live in the now, not then," he said softly, breath warm on my right ear as his chin rested on my shoulder. He looked like a hunchback, being more than a couple inches taller than I, but he wasn't complaining, so neither would I.   
  
Vaughn twisted, standing to face me now, and wrapped an arm around my waist, hand resting just over the edge of my stomach, warm and inviting. Cupped to his body now, he straightened out to look down on me as if I were some precious statue, a hand resting on my cheek. It's amazing what a well placed hand can do to me, his doubly so.   
  
"You're not her," he whispered. "You're Syd. My Syd. I wouldn't have you any other way." His fingers started dancing on my side so subtly I wasn't squirming from being tickled, but could feel them move; dancing slowly in random patterns over my skin, smoothing lines as if savoring a fine wine. They moved not only on my skin, but under it, creating an itch only he could relieve.   
  
In short, it was driving me wildly insane.   
  
"Prove it," I challenged him, planting a kiss just at the edge of his jaw line beneath his ear. Soft and fast, I repeated it for my own amusement, his face falling into the crook of my neck as I traced a line down his jaw to his chin, lips teasing his bottom one. He sighed against my throat, tongue darting out for a second against my pulse.   
  
I'm positive it was jumping in a mad rush.   
  
And just as I started to move up on the other side of his face, he groaned and tightened his hold around my waist.   
  
"For the love of God," he muttered, and pulled my face violently from along his jaw to his lips, kissing me hard and fast without pretence, pushing me into the counter behind us. Popcorn cascaded to the floor as the lip of the linoleum bit into my back, the bowl crashing down at our feet.   
  
I swear this man has special skills. In no time at all, my legs were wrapped around his waist and he was carrying me back towards my bedroom, able to walk and drive me wild at the same time.   
  
Screw the tree. I had more pressing things to attend to.   
  
  
  
I cracked one eye open, was shocked by sunlight, and closed it with a groan. Sunlight gives light, they told me in school, and allows life to flourish. It also gives headaches and a sense of responsibility. Nighttime was shrouded in secrecy and mystery, when anything was possible, but daytime, daytime meant work and bills, errands and tasks that needed to get done.   
  
Doing what any sensible woman would do when faced with a morning after a wonderful night, I snuggled closer to the body in bed with me with a content smile on my face.   
  
Except there wasn't one there.   
  
Confused, I opened my eyes and scrunched up my nose, longing for that snuggle time I really, really enjoyed. The other side of the bed was empty, Vaughn sitting on the floor against the door, an envelope in his hand. He was dressed, if you could call it that, wearing his boxers discarded so carelessly the night before. I shifted, crawling across the white sheets to face him, lying on my stomach with the sheets tangled around me. Pushing some hair out of my face with my entire hand, I smiled down at him.   
  
He positively glowed back and held up the card he had been reading.   
  
"Better wake up," he said, grinning like an idiot. "We've got plans tonight."   
  
"Plans?" I asked back. I didn't want plans. I wanted more time to decorate the tree and be alone with him before another mission called and pulled us away from each other. He nodded, dropping the card on the floor at the edge of the room.   
  
"Yep," he smiled, walking on his knees over to me. I kissed his nose and laid my head on his hands placed on the edge of the bed. "A party."   
  
"I like parties," I'm sure is what I mumbled. His hands moved from under my head and ran down my sides, causing me to shiver under his touch. He laughed deeply.   
  
"Me too," he said, climbing up onto the bed with me. "But it isn't until tonight."   
  
"Breaking the rules again?" I smirked. He nodded, wrapping his arms around me.   
  
"Oh, most definitely."   
  



	15. 12 Days of Christmas, Part 8

**Title**: Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Fluff  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.

--------

**Part Eight: Eight Maids a-Milking **  
  
_On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me   
Eight maids a-milking,   
Seven swans a-swimming,   
Six geese a-laying,   
Five golden rings,   
Four calling birds,   
Three French hens,   
Two turtle doves,   
And a partridge in a pear tree. _  
  
Apparently, it was a tradition, one I'd been told about the year before, but not privy to participate in myself, the looming threat of SD-6 a definite deterrent from sending me an invitation. But the day after, I'd met for a counter mission, unhappy about being asked to meet within the cold cage of the self-storage facility, to find Vaughn grinning like an idiot despite a sunken, tired expression and rumpled suit. Curious, I'd asked him about it, used to seeing him in freshly pressed suits no matter what time of day it was.   
  
_"What happened to you?" I asked, steps taking me right in front of where he half-sat on an empty crate.   
  
"Weiss' holiday party," he said.   
  
"Did you even sleep?"   
  
"Uh..I don't think so."   
  
I narrowed my eyes, wondering how you could be unsure if you'd slept or not. Perhaps years of working and overseas flights had given me a heads up when it came to figuring out if I'd gotten enough sleep or not. But judging by his vacant look and degree of un-kept stubble dotting his face, I could tell not only had he missed a night of sleep, but had yet to go home.   
  
And here he was, sitting here because of a phone call I'd made selfishly with concern for only my own welfare.   
  
"Go home," I told him softly, eyes dipping to the ground. He shifted on the crate and rested a hand behind him lazily, almost lounging inside the professional confines of our hidden sanctuary.   
  
"I told you I was always there for you. What's wrong?" Concern was laced through his tired words, and he stifled an escalating yawn as best he could, a hand politely saving me from having to look down his throat. He groaned a bit into the yawn, the sound falling into a sigh as he massaged the back of his neck with the hand already in front of his face.   
  
"Tell me about the party," I said, leaning on the crate besides him. He turned to me, hand returning to lean behind him as he scooted up to completely sit on the crate.   
  
"Are you sure?"   
  
"I just need something happy, normal," I sighed, tucking my hair behind my ears.   
  
"Well, I wouldn't exactly call Weiss' parties normal. Just think of who's throwing them," he commented wryly.   
  
"You look like you fun," I observed. He grinned and nodded enthusiastically.   
  
"I did. Nothing like a party of Eric's to lift the spirits." _  
And he told me, complete with animated gestures and a full range of facial expressions that were a welcome change from his mask of disconnection and worry. The picture painted vividly in my mind, a secret wish of mine soon became a longing to take down SD-6 so I could attend the party on Vaughn's arm.   
  
Reading the invitation for the fourth time, I couldn't help but grin as I looked over the hastily typed sheet of paper laid out in the same style of fraternity flyers I'd seen tacked to overcrowded bulletin boards in college. More proof that Weiss had never grown up, and was a fantastic actor when it came to his current profession.   
  
"What's that?"   
  
I looked up, having totally forgotten Will had come home a little while ago from work. He sat next to me and snatched the paper from my hands.   
  
"Party at Weiss' in," I leaned back and checked the time on my alarm clock, "an hour and a half."   
  
"Yeah, he was talking about it at work today," Will grinned, handing the paper back. "And I got more than a few warnings from other agents. You're seriously going to go?"   
  
"Will, I've wanted to go since I heard about it last year," I chided, fumbling off the bed in search of an outfit for the gathering.   
  
"From Vaughn?"   
  
"Yeah. He's gone for years and he's still alive," I replied, pulling open the doors to my closet with a flourish of color.   
  
"Well, he's Weiss' best friend – I'm sure there's some kind of rule that says you have to spare the friend."   
  
"So I'll be safe through association," I commented to a pink shirt way out of season. Wrinkling my nose, I pushed it aside in search of something in season and warm enough so I wouldn't have to bring a jacket. The hangers scratched against the rod above as I worked through my clothes at a frantic speed, happy to just be able to go to a party without wearing next to nothing in skin-tight blue.   
  
"Yeah."   
  
I stopped, my fingers playing with the sleeve of a festive red sweater. "You're not going? Don't tell me you're not going – you have to!"   
  
"Oh, I'm going," he laughed. "Just informed."   
  
"About what?"   
  
I hid my grin against the fuzzy red turtleneck as Vaughn entered the bedroom, leaning on the doorframe near Will. It had been slow going, but the pair of men had come to some kind of unspoken understanding, the glares and sarcastic quips subsiding as a friendship bloomed as result of a common connection. I pulled the sweater from the hanger and slipped it over my black tank top, shifting the waistband of my black jeans to work right with the rising hem of the sweater.   
  
At least I had the body to wear the outfit, the physical demands of my job keeping me in shape. I pulled my hair out from the neck of my sweater and put my hands on my hips. Something, from this outfit, was missing.   
  
"This crazy party," Will answered Vaughn's interjection into our loose conversation. "How long has he been doing this?"   
  
"Six years, ever since he moved to LA," Vaughn said, looking like some kind of fashion model in a long-sleeved green shirt and a pair of beige cargo pants. And he was all mine. Don't think I didn't see the looks he attracted from women when we went out together – he got more than a few. Maybe a more insecure woman would be worried, but he knew, as well as I, that I could kick his ass if he ever double crossed me. That was all the security I needed.   
  
"His way of making friends," he commented to Will before turning his attention to me. "Anyway, we've got to go."   
  
"It doesn't start for another hour."   
  
"I know, but I always go help him out," he said, pushing off the frame. Snatching a necklace from the mess of jewelry on my dresser, I crossed the room and gave Vaughn a quick kiss on the lips.   
  
"You're such a softy."   
  
"Shh," he murmured, putting a finger to my lips, "it's a secret." I raised an eyebrow and backed away, catching a murderous look on Will's face before he smiled at me over Vaughn's shoulder.   
  
"Well, you're in trouble, because Weiss is the one that told me."   
  
He laughed, putting an arm around my shoulders, his chest rumbling softly from his laughter and quivering through me as he led me from the bedroom and planted a kiss on the crown of my head. Will pattered behind us and disappeared into his own room, leaving Vaughn and I in the center of my kitchen area.   
  
"Shoes!" I cried, slipping out from under his arm, twisting around and freeing myself with ease. He turned, most probably astounded by my awesome abilities, and leaned up against the counter. I grappled around for my nice black boots – comfortable like you wouldn't imagine yet stylish and attention-grabbing – and slipped them on, swooping back to a standing position as I zippered both up at the same time.   
  
And almost hit Vaughn square in the face with my head.   
  
He leaned in ever so slightly, nose brushing against mine as I smirked and leaned into his inviting lips, pressing against them for a light kiss. An arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me close as his tongue played along my lips, beckoning and tempting as mine parted in a soft moan. His teeth bit down on my bottom one before his tongue moved to mingle with my own, and I did nothing to stop myself from becoming jelly, letting his arm keep me standing as he probed deeper.   
  
My hands rested flat on his chest, elbows bent as he held me tight against him, one of his hands playing with my hair, holding my head steady as he seemed to suck the breath from me. Just before I felt I could last no longer, he pulled back, nipping my swollen lips twice before leaning his forehead against mine.   
  
"Ready to go?" he whispered, breath hot against my cheeks. And no, I was not ready to go. Go where? Away from here? But here we have a bed, and if we can't make it that far, a couch. Why would I want to go somewhere when I could spend another amazing evening with you?   
  
But instead of saying all of that, I simply put my hands on his shoulders and said, "Yeah."   
  
And that was that.   
  
  
  
The house was a disaster.   
  
Vaughn didn't even bother with ringing the doorbell; a sign taped to the door addressed to him told him to get his ass inside before Weiss went insane, a smaller note at the bottom telling him he'd pay for being late. Vaughn snickered at the note and tore it down with one hand, crumbling the white printer paper as he stepped into the house and slipped off his shoes.   
  
I followed suit, simply amazed by the disorganized nature of the house and how someone could _live _ in such a place. It was a nice ranch style home, though, and could be something from a magazine if kept properly. Vaughn led me down the main hallway, past an unused dining room and staircase, to the kitchen and living room in the back portion of the house where Weiss was arguing with a bottle opener and beer.   
  
"Hey," Vaughn gave a nod of his head and tossed his light suede jacket on the back of one of the bar stools. Weiss threw the bottle into the trash and glared at Vaughn.   
  
"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded. I took this chance to walk up to him and give him a bear hug. "Hey there, Sydney."   
  
"Hi. So…what happened here? A tornado?"   
  
"Huh?" he asked, looking to Vaughn for clarification.   
  
"This is clean, Syd," he remarked. "Eric's not the…most organized person in the world."   
  
"So how'd he end up your friend?" I shot back. It was no secret that Vaughn was one of the most organized people on the planet, his obsession bordering on obsessive-compulsive. I told him the day he came home and started straightening the fringe on my rug was the last day he was coming home to me. He laughed, but I suspect he was a bit nervous about that.   
  
"Hey now, kids, break it up," Weiss mocked. "We've got stuff to do."   
  
"You haven't brought the table up yet," Vaughn observed as Weiss opened the fridge. He held his hand out, and Weiss deposited a bottle in it as he rounded the island in the middle of his kitchen.   
  
"Share," he said to me, "cause there isn't much of the good stuff."   
  
"Good to know," I replied, and took a swig of Vaughn's just after he opened it. He cried out in exclamation, snagging it back before glaring and leaving the kitchen. I stood dumbfounded, and looked to Weiss for an answer.   
  
"Hey," he held his hands up in surrender, "don't get between a man and his beer."   
  
"I feel like I'm back in college."   
  
"Haha, very funny, Miss Bristow. Wanna get the food out for me? It's in the fridge." And he disappeared in the same direction of Vaughn, apparently going for the table stored...somewhere.   
  
I shook my head and headed for the fridge, almost frightened of what I'd find inside. Just as I was about to pull it open, my eyes caught sight of a note on the freezer door, and I paused, looked over my shoulder, then read. In a scrawl that was unmistakably that of my boyfriend was:   
  
11:37 am   
A. V, E   
12   
  
What the hell did that mean?   
  
I'd seen my share of shorthand, but this was just baffling. It wasn't even in a code of any kind, and seemed as if only the most important elements had been written down. A.V. While the Audio/Video club from my high school came to mind, I doubt he was making a reference to that. And 11:37 was such an odd time. Why not 11:30, or 11:35, a rounder, easier measure of time? And 12? Well, while I'd like to think that's their combined mental age, I'm sure it referred to something else. Door 12? Apartment 12? Gate 12? House 12?   
  
Or 12 wonderful long-stemmed roses, the romantic side of me commented.   
  
A thump brought my attention back to the fact that I was standing in the middle of Eric Weiss' kitchen, preparing for a crazy, insane party that was going to start in less than an hour. And I wasn't alone in the house.   
  
Tearing my eyes from the note, I pulled three plastic wrapped platters from the refrigerator and plopped them down on the island, pulling the wrap off them as Weiss and Vaughn rounded the corner, an 8-foot table balanced between the both of them. Weiss was at the losing end, and finally just dropped his side on the floor before bending over with his hands on his knees.   
  
"Wimp," Vaughn teased, dragging the table the rest of the way to run the length of the hallway just inside the carpeted area of the small off-side living room.   
  
"Yeah, I'm not running around the world with hot secret agents," Weiss bit back, regaining his breath. He straightened and went to work on pulling the legs out from under the table, working with Vaughn to plop it upright.   
  
"That's no reason," Vaughn replied. I moved back into the confines of the kitchen and started looking for other items that needed to go out.   
  
"Just keep to yourself, okay? I know how Mary looks at you, and I was hopin' tonight might – "   
  
Vaughn cut him off with a groan. "You're still pining over her? What has it been? Six months?"   
  
"Hello! Year and a half. And, I might add, still successful."   
  
I blushed at the declaration, the words being the first time I'd heard someone say what I'd felt was right; that Vaughn's feelings for me had started almost the instant we met.   
  
"That was different," Vaughn shot back.   
  
"How?"   
  
"Do I really need to spell it out for you?"   
  
"Yes, Mr. Vaughn, and after that, can we color pictures?" Weiss replied, his voice several octaves higher in his own imitation of a school child. "C'mon, Michael, don't fight me on this."   
  
"I'm not!"   
  
"Yes you are," Weiss retorted. I swung out of the kitchen just in time to see him lean close to Vaughn and rest a hand on his shoulder. "Or do you know something I don't?"   
  
"Right. Because I spend my free time talking to the women you have a crush on. Which, I might add, would take all day," he sighed. Weiss then moved the hand from Vaughn's shoulder and ran it up his face, sighing himself. I held a hand over my mouth, hoping to contain my laughter as Vaughn's face slackened his eyes opened wide.   
  
"Why do you fight me so?" Weiss almost sang, leaning in –   
  
- and Vaughn promptly snatched Weiss' arm and swung him around, Weiss crashing against the wall near the entranceway to the kitchen. If I'd had any doubts about Vaughn having been a field agent before, they fled as he seemed completely at ease after performing a martial arts move on his best friend.   
  
I rushed over and took Weiss' hand, helping him back up. The pair of us glared at Vaughn, who shoved his hands into his pockets and looked completely innocent. So innocent, I could feel bad about wanting to pull him into an unoccupied room and –   
  
"He was hitting on me!"   
  
"Was not. Get a grip, Mike."   
  
"Okay, can we just finish setting up?" I asked. "Because people will be here soon."   
  
  
After someone jumped up onto the kitchen table and started dancing, I knew Vaughn hadn't embellished any last year when he re-told his experience at the party.   
  
Two hours in, when most would just start getting drunk, half the attendees, people I didn't know and already feared, were loud, obnoxious, and dancing on Weiss' small table. I clutched Vaughn's arm with two hands as we stood just outside the ring of people cheering the dancer, a man I'd been introduced to as "Boxer", as he swung his hips and sang along to a bad 80's song pouring out of Weiss' impressively large and nice stereo.   
  
"Is this normal?" I cried over the music. Vaughn looked down at me, puzzled, and I repeated myself. He nodded and leaned down close to my ear.   
  
"Perfectly. Actually, I'm surprised the police haven't been called yet."   
  
"Police?" I exclaimed. He nodded and leaned in again.   
  
"Yeah. Eric's neighbors don't appreciate our parties."   
  
"As in, more than one?"   
  
"Welcome to the group," he must have grinned as he said that, and pressed a kiss to the soft skin just behind my ear, lingering there long enough for someone near us to tell us to find a room.   
  
That person had a great idea.   
  
But alas, Vaughn merely laughed and shot a retort back to the shouter. He extracted his arm from my death grip and snaked it around my waist, thumb looped through my jeans belt loop, tugging down on them slightly. I shoved my hands in my pockets, my right one under his. His grip was strong and inviting, granting me safety and sanity among the unreal scene around us.   
  
It was a laughable idea – that of Vaughn attending wild parties of Eric's. He was such a straight arrow that his codename was perfect for him. He didn't break rules, didn't live on the wild side. But now that I thought about it, he'd made references and allusions to going to friends' places for the night before. Didn't he say he met up with Alice at a friend's before?   
  
Oh no. Alice.   
  
If there was one thing I didn't want to deal with right now, it was the arrival of Alice. I could feel my heart race up, and I was sure my palms started sweating. Being the psychic man he was, Vaughn weaved me through the growing crowd to the unused dining room and sat me in one of the chairs.   
  
"What's wrong?" he asked. He stood before me like a statue, one hand tucked on his hip while the other rested on my left shoulder, eyes shimmering with worry. The party continued on beyond our vision, a loud whoop from Weiss signaling the end of Boxer's dance. Yes. That's it. Because I didn't want to think of what else it could have been for.   
  
"Nothing, nothing's wrong," I replied. There was no reason for me to bring down his fun because I was uncomfortable or afraid of an ex-girlfriend.   
  
He raised an eyebrow and let a corner of his lips rise ruefully. "You really think I can't see through you?"   
  
"Vaughn," I nearly whined, "let's just go back to the party."   
  
"You heard Adam. He told us to get a room."   
  
"I don't think he meant it this way," I shot back. Enough was enough, and I wasn't going to sit here under his gaze while he gave me the third degree. I stood, or at least tried to, but he pushed me back down into the chair and swept down on me, straddling my legs as he sat on my lap facing me.   
  
"It's, well, you said before," I started, but paused. Our relationship was already strange, a challenge because of our intertwined pasts and present situation. Trust was a cornerstone, a foundation we needed more than anything to remain afloat in the ocean of our own secrets, and while I'd been hiding things from him for the past week, I learned just yesterday there was no reason to, that he could read me like an open book.   
  
"What?"   
  
"That when you got back with Alice, you saw her at a friends – "   
  
"Oh, come on," he groaned while slapping his forehead. "Do you really think I'd bring you if she were around? Or want to be somewhere around her even? I'm with you, Syd, not her, not anyone else. And I feel that I'd die if ever separated from you." His hands slipped down to my hips, resting on the sliver of exposed skin between my sweater and jeans.   
  
I think I was melting. If from the heat of his hands riding on my hips or the undeniable emotion behind his words, I don't know.   
  
"You've got to know you own me by now," he grinned. "And if you'd like to see a grown man reduced to nothing, just leave me, even for a day. An hour."   
  
"I might take you up on that challenge," I joked.   
  
"Don't," he whispered, his head falling on my shoulder. I ran my hand down the back of his head, stopping at the base of his neck, my entire hand gripping it, my fingers working into his skin, fingers brushing the edge of his shoulders. He shifted his face in the crook of my neck, a soft, fast kiss planted there as I finished on his neck. Vaughn didn't move quickly, instead, he took his time, tracing a flaming line from my neck to my ear, a trail of fire left when he finally pushed himself upright.   
  
"There you are!" Peering over Vaughn's shoulder, I found Weiss standing in the cutout for the living room, his arm around a pretty girl with blond hair and brown eyes. Vaughn turned, looking at her himself, and stood quickly, pulling me up with him.   
  
"Mary?" I whispered.   
  
"Anna," he replied to me. He swung around me to face his friend, highly amused. "What's up?"   
  
"Boxer lost $100, needs to borrow some."   
  
"And?"   
  
"You owe him for last year."   
  
Last year? "What happened last year?"   
  
"Nothing," both said at the same time, and Weiss said something to Anna that made her giggle drunkenly and be whisked away to…some other part of the house.   
  
I faced Vaughn. "Vaughn…"   
  
"Nothing!" he squeaked, and darted out of the room so fast, I almost had to run to catch up to him. By the time I did catch up with him, he was laughing at some joke in a circle of men near the refrigerator, and I couldn't help but glare as he paled and took a large drink of his beer. I slithered through the men and leaned into his side, his arm automatically wrapping around my shoulders.   
  
"So guys," I piped up as soon as their laugher died. "What happened last year?"   
  
I think that was the first time Vaughn actually wanted to kill me. 


	16. 12 Days fo Christmas, Part 9

**Title**: Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Fluff  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.  
Author's Note: Special thanks to KarenB for the beta, and Amylee for the read-through. 

-------  
  
Chapter Nine: Nine Ladies Dancing  
  
_On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me   
Nine ladies dancing,   
Eight maids a-milking,   
Seven swans a-swimming,   
Six geese a-laying,   
Five golden rings,   
Four calling birds,   
Three French hens,   
Two turtle doves,   
And a partridge in a pear tree._  
  
"Last year? It involved his mother and a sprinkler."  
  
The clock over the stove blinked midnight just as the group exploded in a roar of laughter, Vaughn's arm around me tightening on my shoulder, his hand giving it a good squeeze. I could feel his fingernails digging into my skin, and as I tried to shrug him off, he kept his hold. He was a bit upset.   
  
"It was nothing, Syd," he said down to me, his left hand patting my other side.   
  
"Nothing?" One of the men huffed. "Nothing! Why, he was the star of the office for a week!" Of the office? Which meant that all these people worked with them?   
  
"The office?" I decided to ask up to Vaughn, looking at him like the doting, adoring girlfriend I was.   
  
"Mark and I work together at arms control," he replied smoothly. I nodded. It was probably a lie he'd said a thousand times when meeting new people, longing, as boys do, to tell them how cool his job really was yet unable to. Arms control sounded dull and boring, but when faced with an automatic weapon, his extraordinary knowledge on the weapon wouldn't come as a surprise. His keen sense while on assignment, a gun aimed at the back of his head, made sense, and I was sure he took his cover as seriously as I'd taken mine as a banker. How I wished there was some way to dump useless information from my head, such as the inner workings of an international monetary transfer, but with my luck, I'd need it just as soon as I got rid of it.   
  
But his answer simply told me that Mark worked with him, or used to, and had been one of those talking about him last year after the event happened. Knowing the social structuring of the CIA offices, the story must have spread like wildfire through the entire building and Vaughn had been mocked about it for weeks. Which would be why he didn't want the story re-told.  
  
It must have been really bad. And incredibly funny.   
  
"It all started with this woman named – " Mark paused, looking to the others gathered around for a clue as to the woman's name. Oh great. Just after confessing my discomfort with the mention of Vaughn's ex-girlfriend, I get to hear about yet another just one year ago. Right when I found something enjoyable about this gathering, something else has to rise to the occasion, crushing my high spirits.   
  
Come to think of it, it seemed as if life itself was constantly working against me.   
  
Dejected, the fun of torturing Vaughn through the recanting of last year's absurdities no longer as fun, I leaned up against him, pressing my back flush against his. His hand slipped down from its perch on my shoulder and rested on my hip, my arm tingling from the brief contact between us, and thoughts from earlier in the night came rushing back. Why couldn't we be at home, instead of standing in the middle of Weiss' kitchen surrounded by people I didn't know who were going to tell me about Vaughn and some other woman?   
  
"Ann," Vaughn finally supplemented, the rising of his chest to expel a deep sigh dragging me from my slightly impure thoughts.   
  
"Right," another man said, taking a long drink of hard lemonade. "But that wasn't her first name."  
  
My cheeks started to glow.   
  
"Yeah. Middle, right, Michael?" a third member of the circle asked. While Vaughn's first name always seemed to fumble from my mouth like a bad pass, it flowed around the room naturally, a flag of his normal life away from work. And me. I wasn't surprised he went by his full first name, and other than Weiss' usage of Mike, he had everyone else pretty much conditioned.   
  
He nodded. I could tell, as his chin hit me on the top of the head each time it dipped down. But I wasn't concerned with that right then, since my middle name is Ann. By the way Vaughn was rubbing his thumb along my side just over the exposed flesh between my jeans and sweater, I got the clear idea that this story was about me.   
  
"Anyway," Mark seemed to bounce as he got started telling the story, his beer swishing around in its dark brown bottle, "Michael here comes in last year totally down. I mean, head literally dragging along the ground as he walked in. Now, we can't have people being sad here – "  
  
"This is a Weiss party, after all," someone interjected.   
  
" – so naturally, we got him a drink," Mark continued.   
  
"Don't you mean drunk?"   
  
"Shut it, Bryce. I gave him a _drink_. As in one. How did I know there was the spirit of an alcoholic raging in there somewhere?"   
  
Bryce laughed and punched Mark playfully in the shoulder. "Just get on with it."   
  
"After about, what was it, 8? 10?"   
  
"Nine," Vaughn said, "and my liver still hurts."   
  
He seemed in higher spirits, that's for sure, his other hand sliding around to rest flat on my stomach. The group shuddered with laughter after his comment, the boisterous sound drawing Weiss like a fly to a bright light. He put a hand each on Mark and Bryce's shoulders and leaned in, his beer threatening to spill down the front of Bryce's shirt.   
  
"What's going on here, kids?" he almost slurred. Oh, he was such a lightweight despite his attempts to appear like a frat boy who could drink with the best of them. I'm sure I could drink him under the table.   
  
"We're just reliving Vaughn's show from last year," Mark answered. I saw that mischievous glint in his eye, and watched as it transmitted over to Weiss, who pushed himself through to join the circle. He pointed at Vaughn with the hand still clutched around the neck of his beer, and laughed.   
  
"No, Eric," Vaughn bit out, "you're sworn to secrecy."   
  
"Haha. Get on with the story, I'll be quiet, really quiet," he replied, quite loudly, actually, even when he 'attempted' to whisper the last part, which came out even louder than the rest of his sentence. He slumped against the island behind him, and crossed his arms ready to watch the show.   
  
This wasn't going to be good. Which is why I wanted to hear it that much more.   
  
"Okay, nine drinks. So he's slurring and waving his arms all over the place going on and on about this girl Ann and how he loves her but can't be with her and how she's got this friend who she's always with, this guy, and he hates this guy because he wishes he were him," Mark let out in one whoosh. "I have no idea what he was really saying," he explained after his confusing run-on sentence. "I dropped French when I was a junior in high school – the girl I was in it for decided German was a better language."   
  
"Weren't you stationed in Germany for awhile?" Weiss asked.   
  
"Yeah, with her," Mark replied shallowly as if to say 'duh'. Weiss took that for what it was and downed half his beer. "Anyway, it was muddled and I only remembered my pronouns. Him, her, and something about love. I always remember that, my wife _loves_ it."  
  
"Ugg, please, Mark," Weiss interjected after a burp. "No stories about the wife."  
  
"Thought you already puked once," Bryce asked over his shoulder. I could guess what Mark's job was at the CIA because he looked ready to knock the pair of them off their asses like it was taking a walk down the driveway to get the morning paper. He was held back not by his own devices, but Vaughn, who put a hand on Mark's shoulder and attempted a last-ditch effort to steer the conversation away from him and his immature antics.   
  
In all honesty, I have no idea what he said or did to get Mark to start storytelling again. My mind was stuck on the fact that last year he'd come to Weiss' party and gotten drunk because he was _in love_ with me at the time, and couldn't stand to see me go home to Francie and Will to spend a nice, normal Christmas with them. I frowned, wondering why, when drunk of all states, he'd start rattling off things in French, and turned up to look at him.   
  
"French?" I mused. He almost jumped before gazing down at me, brow wrinkling.   
  
"Yeah, Syd you – "  
  
"Haha!" came a bout of Weiss' obnoxious laughter. "She doesn't – you never told her, eh?"   
  
"Told me what?" I asked him, a futile act, I know. He motioned vaguely in the air with his bottle as if that were an explanation in and of itself, smiling at me when he finished as if I understood what he'd said. I just shook my head and sighed. Vaughn threw a refrigerator magnet at him, hitting his friend clear in the center of his forehead, and turned his attention back to me. Good.   
  
"I thought you knew," he started cryptically, and I wasn't going to be able to handle it if he told me he was some kind of space alien that knew every language in the world.   
  
Woah. How much have I had to drink?  
  
But really, think about it. How would you react if your boyfriend were a space alien? With my luck, the moment he confessed this little part of himself, he'd either be recalled to his home planet or killed by some shady government agency for revealing that top-secret fact. Oh God, he works for a shady government agency! Would Weiss suddenly drop the 'drunk' act and shoot his friend point blank? Or were both of them aliens?  
  
I put my drink down on a nearby counter and started scoping out the room for pretzels.   
  
"No…"  
  
"He's an alien," Mark stated dryly, still sore from being held back before. I would have swayed on my feet if Vaughn's hands weren't planted firmly on my hip and stomach.   
  
"I'm not an alien," Vaughn countered with a playful tone, now resting his chin on my head. Since when did I become a headrest? "I'm a duel-citizen."  
  
"Potato," Weiss started. "Potato."   
  
Except he said it the _exact_ same way both times. The group exploded with laughter, a few leaving in search of other conversations, leaving gaps for new people to join. Social situations are just like cars while you're speeding down the road and trying not to get in an accident – people moved in and out of lanes at the rate it took a normal person to blink, their appetite for conversation changing with the ticking of the clock.   
  
Or, say, how much alcohol they'd consumed.   
  
Vaughn had been right about the possibility for police arriving soon. The music, which had started the night at a nice, background level, had become almost deafening with the deep, booming base and stringy treble pouring from speakers settled on either side of his television. "Boxer" was now lounging in a plush armchair in front of one of the massive speakers, and pockets of guests could be seen gathered in small circles as they conversed, voices loud as they attempted to speak over the melody.   
  
"Yes, Michael here has not only the looks, but the French side to win over women and steal them from us," Bryce spoke up. He sounded a bit angry about that, but he was thin and nerd-looking; probably a tech rather than a field agent. No threat.   
  
Weiss tapped him on the shoulder. "I took Nina, not him."  
  
"Oh, right. Sorry."   
  
Vaughn shrugged and took the opportunity to reclaim my discarded drink, downing a healthy amount punctuated with a satisfied sigh. He placed it on the counter nearest himself before letting his head settle on mine once again, this time with both hands settled on my stomach, his thumbs snaking up and under my sweater. Oh, how glad am I the fabric is loose around my middle? The idea that the men standing around us could see just _how_ effective the simple movement of Vaughn's thumbs were on me wasn't a comforting one. But oh my, how nice did that feel?   
  
I leaned into him more, laughing as his back thudded against the refrigerator and his fingers faltered for just a second. He shifted behind me, finding a more comfortable position, and resumed his previous activity.   
  
"Weren't you telling a story?" a newcomer asked.   
  
Mark snapped his fingers and smirked. "Yes, I was. So there he was, sitting on the couch, shouting away in a language half of us don't understand, and drinking more than, well, I've ever seen him drink before.  
  
"So I turned to Bryce here and asked him if he knew what Michael was going on about, and he said no, and then Weiss came up and said something about a girl at work and – " he paused, narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side as he scrutinized me. He clicked his tongue and smiled. "You're Ann?"  
  
"Sydney Ann, yes," I replied, holding out my hand for him to shake. He took it, his grasp firm, and shook it up and down vigorously while keeping his smile plastered across his face.   
  
"I can see why you were so distraught," Bryce commented off-hand. "She's a looker."  
  
A hand left my stomach to whack Bryce on the shoulder, but soon returned to where it had been sitting comfortably and most appreciated atop my midriff. We were all happy and laughing, taking in the simple things in life, when Weiss stepped forward and assumed the storyteller hat from Mark, making more vague hand motions that went along the lines of showing he was actually taking the hat off Mark's head and putting it on his own.   
  
"Okay, Markie, you suck at this. So Sydney, he's all drunk and has a little too much to drink so he manages to make it to my bedroom before passing out."  
  
"Him? Pass out?" I asked, genuinely surprised. Weiss nodded enthusiastically.   
  
"Yes. Out like a light."  
  
"So we have loud music – "  
  
I interrupted Bryce with a deadpan interjection of my own. "I can tell."  
  
" – and the neighbors don't like it so much, so the cops were called. We don't have the…best reputation with them, so Weiss headed into the bedroom to wake Michael up from his slumber," he finished without missing a beat.   
  
"Except he was out cold," Mark commented. "And apparently, Weiss' barking and naturally obnoxious nature was unable to wake him up."   
  
"So we did what any man would do to help his fellow man when in this situation," Weiss announced complete with a winning smile, his chest puffed out like I was going to give him an award of some kind.   
  
"Oh?" I voiced.   
  
"Threw him on the front lawn and activated the sprinklers," Weiss beamed, mimicking the turning on of the sprinklers with his hand. Bryce and Mark laughed, in on some secret joke, and I swear I could _feel_ Vaughn shooting death glares their way.   
  
"But that wasn't all," Mark rose. He pointed a finger into the air as if to make his point, literally. "No, see, he was still in his nice wool suit at the time, and the water wouldn't reach his skin with that on."   
  
It was starting to dawn on me. His tired eyes. Not knowing if he'd slept or not. Rumpled clothes. Disheveled appearance.   
  
"In our own defense, we were pretty trashed at the time ourselves," Weiss brought up. This party was an overgrown frat party, the pledges and brothers replaced with tight laced CIA officers looking for some release from the regularity of their daily lives, an opportunity to unwind and be themselves for a night. "But we thought it would be most productive to remove the suit, then throw him outside."   
  
Oh. My.   
  
Pushing aside the gorgeous imagery of my boyfriend wandering around the front yard of Weiss' house in nothing more than boxers and a soaked Oxford with waterlogged hair hanging down into his eyes, I could see how this would be a tale you wouldn't want repeated back at the office. But by the way Weiss' mouth was still hanging open like a dog eyeing a stake, I had the haunting feeling the story wasn't finished.   
  
"It backfired," Mark sighed, shaking his head with eyes cast to the floor. "The cops pulled up right then and decided to take him in for the night."   
  
I yelped. Actually yelped and jumped and pulled myself away from him so I could get a better look at his face. It was the deepest shade of red I ever thought possible upon a man's face, running from his cheeks to his wrinkled forehead, past his shrinking green gaze and pursed lips. I couldn't figure out at that second if he was embarrassed or livid, but he was a force to be reckoned with.   
  
I slowly backed away.   
  
"That's not the best part!" Weiss exclaimed a little too loud. A few people from the other side of the room looked over, found nothing of interest, and returned to their own conversations. "No. See, I was a little, well, asleep the next morning and he had no one else to call…"  
  
"Vaughn," I breathed as Weiss' hand clamped down on my shoulder.   
  
So he hadn't been home when I'd called him, or been able to get there. He'd called his mother, of all people, to come pick him up and had been on his way home when I'd called him. That's why there was a different car parked outside the self-storage that morning, and he'd uncharacteristically rushed through his story to get back outside. I thought he wanted to get home after a long night, but it was something completely different.   
  
I started laughing. Deep, loud, honking laughter that only came out when amused to the point of insanity or drunk; feeling both at the same time seemed to make it the perfect occasion to pull it out. I threw a hand over my stomach when it started to ache from the giggles and doubled over.  
  
Long ago, I learned that Vaughn is the kind of man who keeps his emotions bottled up inside, shoving them aside like unwanted vegetables on a dinner plate. Sure, he'll take a bite every once and awhile when his mother tells him to lest he'd be grounded, but most of the time they're ignored green plants on the rejected side of the plate. Imagine my lack of surprise as, instead of punching out Weiss for revealing such a secret or his friends for their less than kind snippets, he swooped down, grabbed me around the middle, and swept me off my feet.   
  
"Vaughn!" I squealed as I pounded on his back with my hands. That didn't deter him, and he continued pounding through the kitchen area like an ogre with a captured princess, each footstep loud and rattling as he conquered the makeshift dining room and entered the small living room. Arms flailing above my head, legs kicking out in every direction, I must have looked incredibly silly slung over his shoulder as he rounded the couch and threw me down upon it.   
  
"You have gotten me in a lot of trouble," he stated pointedly, arms crossed. His shirt, a wonderfully soft cotton, stretched as he did so; the giggles growing again as he attempted to look stern.   
  
"Tro…trouble?" I managed through my fit of schoolgirl giggles. I hadn't laughed like that since Bobby Cullins gave me a wildflower in second grade after a soccer game in gym class. I stood there with all my friends and giggled for minutes over the fact that the most popular (and cutest) boy in school had given me a flower. The fit only ended when the teacher blew the whistle signaling the end of class, and while running back to the doors, someone bumped into me and crushed my flower.   
  
I got back at her that afternoon. Never really liked her, anyway.   
  
He nodded, eyes smoldering, and fell onto the couch next to me gracefully in some kind of insane twist move that landed him next to me, his feet resting upon my own curled up ones.   
  
"Oof."  
  
"Oof? My feet hit yours."   
  
I threw an end pillow at his head. He ducked, but the lamp behind him wasn't so lucky. It tumbled to the ground in a shower of exploding light and streaks of dark brown, clattering to the carpeting with a dull thud. Vaughn's eyes were wide when he looked back to me, mouth in a huge grin as the music chose that time to stop, the click of the CD changer unable to mask the sound of a broken lamp. Weiss rushed over, stood over it with his hands on his hips like an experienced homicide detective just reaching the crime scene, and shook his head. A cigarette hanging out of his mouth would have completed the scene, but blocked the by drink of beer he took after a moment of silence.   
  
"Did I mention we have to help with clean up?" Vaughn said, raising an eyebrow. I groaned and put my head in my hands, palms pressing into my eyes as if that would cure the headache growing in the wooly area behind my eyes.   
  
"Are we turning out the lights?" someone shouted over the new CD (which was, if possible, louder and more annoying than the first). The loss of lamplight in the living room had attracted the attention of a few of the other partygoers, one suggesting a game of hide-and-go-seek in the dark. I did that once. Ran into a banister and broke my nose. Learned my lesson, though, and never played again.   
  
There was a pitter-patter of sock-clad feet on the linoleum floor, then a snap as circuits were cut and all the lights went out. My ears rang with the residual effects of listening to earsplitting music for over four hours, the silence almost foreign to my tormented eardrums as more feet pattered around and someone started counting completely out of order on the other side of the kitchen. A few people swore, the table legs groaning as they were unwillingly slid across the floor as someone hit its edge. A chair scooted, a closet door opened and closed, a person scuttled and formulated a complex plan with others near my left ear.   
  
What are they? Four?   
  
"Syd?" Vaughn whispered. I felt his hand creep up my side, running along my right arm as he slid over me, his face suddenly hovering inches above mine. His legs were pressed along mine, hands on either side of me as he propped himself up above me.   
  
"Yes?" I asked back, wishing nothing more than for him to kiss me under the cover of darkness, the covert hiders near my head be damned.   
  
"Are we going to hide?"   
  
"ARE YOU FOUR?" I shout-whispered.   
  
"Shh!" he hissed. I pouted and shook my head.   
  
"We're grown adults – "  
  
"Will you shut her up?" someone commanded from the commando group around the area of the low coffee table. I sneered in their direction, but doubt they could see it through the darkness enveloping everyone as the counter continued to bounce around the first 1,000 numbers or so like a ping-pong ball.   
  
And there he was, kissing me sweetly; keeping me from reminding him that he was thirty four years old and the acceptable age for playing hide-and-seek cut off at twelve. And just as things were getting interesting, the throw pillow came back at us.   
  
Guess it wasn't as dark as I thought.  
  
It hit Vaughn squarely in the back, sending him crashing into me. A definite 'oof' situation, and I did so quietly, my exclamation in response to his added weight being swallowed up by his experienced and exploring tongue, which was doing a perfect job of finding each and every spot inside my mouth that brought forth those muted moans I was so willing to share with him.   
  
My eyes slipped closed, thoroughly enjoying a pleasurable end to the evening, when three large bangs hit the front door in rapid precision that came from training or experience, or both. They pounded again, and I heard someone fall out of the hall closet with a swear in longing for the bottle that was now spilled on the floor like the beginnings of a chalk outline around the spot where they fell. Sliding socks on a slick floor, then the click of the front door being opened.   
  
"Whazzat?"   
  
"Mr. Weiss, you should just invite us and save us the trip."   
  
That was a cop. My eyes popped open as Vaughn rolled off me and into the space between the couch and coffee table, someone shouting out in surprise as he landed on one of the commando players. Red and blue lights danced outside the back window, spreading hazy shadows over the main area of the house and those hiding therein. Flickering in an unalterable pattern over and over again over the walls, each and every hiding spot was discovered.   
  
The pounding jarred the counter out of his singsong destruction of counting, and he whirled around, hands over his head. "I can see everyone!"  
  
"What's going on in here?" the cop asked from the front door. Weiss shrugged just as I sat up and answered meekly.   
  
"Surprise?"   



	17. 12 Days of Christmas, Part 10

**Title**: Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Fluff  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.  
Author's Note: Special thanks to KarenB for the beta, and Amylee for the read-through. 

-------  
  
_On the tenth day of Christmas,   
my true love sent to me   
Ten lords a-leaping,   
Nine ladies dancing,   
Eight maids a-milking,   
Seven swans a-swimming,   
Six geese a-laying,   
Five golden rings,   
Four calling birds,   
Three French hens,   
Two turtle doves,   
And a partridge in a pear tree. _  
  
Sometimes, awhile ago, on my way to work, when I wasn't rushing with the threat of imminent danger and the sound of my blood pumping rushing through my ears to drown out any other sounds, I listened to radio talk shows in some futile effort to keep up on current events outside the realm of intelligence. Listening to them gave me a chance to forget about work and the world I've moved into ever since that sunny day in college and see the world as others do – full of self-centered actors, silly lawsuits, and pathetic attempts for media. You'd think, after living in Los Angeles for so long, that I'd be immune to such behavior. But the fact of the matter is that I don't have time to pay attention to things outside my small realm, and my blinders are super effective at keeping everything else out of view.   
  
Francie keeps me informed, babbling on and on about who came into her restaurant that afternoon or the latest gossip she caught on Extra! before rushing out for the dinnertime rush. She's always been like that; her dream during the first years of college was to either become a movie star or marry one (which might be why she was secretly hoping Charlie would make it with his singing career), and until she opened her restaurant, I was afraid she'd never do anything constructive unless she achieved one of those goals.   
  
So, to keep up with her on the nights I was home and we actually had the opportunity to talk, I'd switch my radio onto a random AM station and sit back in infamous LA traffic, listening as normal people babbled about normal things, never once hearing the words 'classified' or 'intel' in their conversations. They'd talk about random things, clippings from newspapers and magazines that caught their attention taking up a considerable amount of time, which made me want to read magazines more (or at all) and prompted me to purchasing a few at airports while waiting for flights.   
  
There was one morning when the radio show's host cleared his throat and said, "So I was reading an article this morning..."   
  
His sidekick, always delivering the punch line, laughed. "You? Reading?" His comment wasn't surprising, but drew out a cheap laugh from the lesser listeners.   
  
"The top five things couples argue about," the host continued, and I tuned him out, really, at that point because I wasn't in a relationship and wanted to be. It was a time when anything related to couples was a topic I avoided in some kind of effort to forget about the couple I wasn't in, and that one half of said couple was already dating someone. I'd get mad, which was never a good mood to be in when going to a covert meeting, and say something I'd regret later. I learned my lesson from one mistake, and became a couple-hating woman for a few weeks because of it.   
  
Suffice to say, I didn't remain that way but at the moment, wished I had.   
  
My memory works in strange ways, ways I've learned not to question over time and simply trust. So while I had originally thought I'd blocked the rest of that radio show out of my mind as I daydreamed about broken watches and discarded Oxfords, it all came crashing back to me as a body fell to the ground and into grass moistened by last night's rare rainstorm.   
  
Hands on my hips, I leaned over, hair falling around my face. "Are you okay?"   
  
"Christmas is in three days," he grumbled, running a hand through his hair as he collected himself from the ground. "Why put up the lights now?"  
  
I groaned and threw my hands up in exasperation, the radio show's words coming to haunt me. "What was number four?" the sidekick asked. The host had laughed and said:  
  
"Putting up holiday lights."  
  
Unless you're standing outside your small, ground level apartment wearing gloves and watching as the lights go up in odd, stringy patterns reminiscent of a four year old's crayon drawings, the concept seems silly.   
  
The lights hung haphazardly, strung from one rusted nail to the next over the large window leading into my living room around to the front door, where the end sat just above the door knob, twinkling sadly at the end of the line. The colors don't match - I'd pulled a box from the top shelf in the laundry room, from next to the empty spot where the base for the tree had been stored all year, and spilled out its contents on the floor near the couch. We spent a good hour working on the large knot of stubby lights and tangled green wires until we could take it no longer and brought what strands we'd untangled outside. The result was four strands, two being colored, the others, white with matching wiring bought when hanging icicles were all the craze and Francie found some on sale in some wholesale store.   
  
I'd already looped the white ones around the small front porch we had and plugged them in by the time Vaughn retrieved a ladder from a neighbor and leaned it up against the house, the rubber tips hitting the brick a bit too close to the glass than I'd have liked. He took longer than I had, which was uncharacteristic of a male, and had fallen down just as he was connecting the two strands together, his statement against hanging lights so close to Christmas being mumbled as the two ends of blocky, thick green plastic dangled down and thunked into the window.   
  
My glare intensified and my hands found their way back to my hips. "Are you _trying_ to break my window?"   
  
"No..."  
  
"Just...stay down here," I ordered him, and took a giant step over his legs and started ascending the ladder, hands sliding up the cold metal at the side of the rungs as the rustling sounds of him standing and smoothing out his clothes came from below. Two rungs from the top, I stopped, braced myself against the ladder, and connected the last two pieces, flinching as the randomly colored lights flared to life and thankful I had an arm wrapped around the metal support. As soon as my vision returned, a few blinks later, I looked back down to the ground to see Vaughn grinning like an idiot right next to the only outdoor outlet, the entire back of his clothing completely soaked.   
  
"How's it look?" I called down, sliding down with practiced ease. He took a few steps back to stand in the center of the yard, and sighed.   
  
"Horrible."  
  
His tone was light, and I was positive he was joking, so as I took a step off the bottom of the ladder to solid ground below, I said, "C'mon, it can't be that bad."  
  
"Yes, it can," he replied, gaze flickering to me as I approached him, back still to the house. After an entire day of arguments and strongly-worded mutual discussions, the idea that he could, in fact, be pulling my leg was the first thing on my mind, and so strong was this belief that I fully expected the house to look wonderful the instant I turned around.   
  
I had no such luck.   
  
If there had been flies around when it was that cold, I would have collected an entire extended family in my mouth. The decorations looked like a third grader's science fair project, lights and smaller additions splayed around with a flurry of ill-conceived vision, placed wherever something was needed with no mind to what 'cluttered' meant. If the house had been tilted on its side, they might have been straight and somewhat tasteful, but at the moment, my house looked really, really bad.   
  
"But don't worry," came Vaughn's voice from just behind me, his arms covertly making their way around my waist, his chin balanced on my shoulder. "I think it adds _character_."  
  
"Character? I think the neighbors are going to think we're crazy," I mumbled, turning my head to look down at him. He was peering at me through soft lashes, eyes focused on my face and not the house we were talking about. I'd always known he was truly five years old, but the expression on his face just cemented the image. Patting the top of his head, I smiled and finally gave in.   
  
He cleared his throat and cast his eyes up, his forehead wrinkling. "Well, at least you won't be accused of copying someone else."   
  
"You always see the glass as half-full, don't you," I commented. He looked off, thinking, then kissed the base of my neck. "I mean, really," I pushed on.   
  
"I'd rather see it that way than half-empty," he quipped as a smile tugged on the edge of his lips. My expression was anything but joking, and I almost felt bad as he sobered up and stood, hands now resting reassuringly on my shoulders. From behind me, I heard him sigh. "There are so many things in the world, in our lives, that are bad, or negative. And instead of falling into them and letting them define us, we have to find the good in the world. The silver lining that keeps us from letting them take over." He gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze. "And it's hard to see the world as anything but half-full when around you. Just by yourself, with your overwhelming spirit and determination, how you break through adversity and still stay this sweet, wonderful woman you are, you're a beacon of hope to the rest of us mortals who have yet to find such internal magnitude and peace."  
  
It's amazingly easy, if you think about it, to kiss someone if they're standing directly behind you; their body heat mingling with your own, auras indistinguishable from one another as no air can pass between you. I didn't follow the guidelines for a normal kiss, didn't let his hands drop to the curve just above my hips and gush up my back as he faced and pulled me in to him. Instead, I tilted up my chin and caught him by surprise with my upside down approach, the sensation of disorienting dizziness intensified by not only his abilities at experimenting with my approach, but the feeling that I was walking on a cloud, dipping down to meet him when they parted and allowed the sunlight to pass through. My hands did catch his neck as I bent my back more, pushing into his surprised yet inviting lips, and just as I was about to break free for fear of dying -   
  
My foot slipped on the wet grass, and sent the pair of us tumbling to the ground in a shower of limbs. My pillow, more a 6'1" collection of limbs and muscles, let out an oof as air rushed from his lungs as I fell on top of him, twisting mid-air to land with my face inches (and facing) his.   
  
"Peace?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.   
  
"Perhaps not at this moment," he retorted as he squirmed under my weight. Things had certainly worked out to my advantage - I had him right where I wanted him, and didn't even have to get wet. "But usually, yes."  
  
"You're deranged."  
  
"And you're beautiful, captivating, and wonderful," he smiled.   
  
I clicked my tongue. "10 points for meaning, 2 for effort. Really, Mr. Vaughn, for a spy, you're lacking in skills."  
  
He sighed, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Frowning, I eased my weight on him.   
  
"While I'm a fan of this position," he started slowly, "and don't get me wrong, I'd love nothing more than to lie here with you for eternity. But this ground _is_ awfully cold and - "  
  
From what my hands had felt of it, he was right. With rain pouring down on the city only a night before and the colder than normal temperatures plaguing the LA area for the last week or so, the grass beneath us had become a refrigerator of sorts, soaked through with cold unwanted rainwater. I cut him off as I vaulted off him and grabbed his hand, pulling him up with me with the speed and urgency of a doctor being paged.   
  
"You're soaked."  
  
"Yes, thank you."   
  
I gave the decorations on the outside of the house a final look, cringing as I passed under them on my way to the front door. There'd be hell to pay when Francie and Will came home, their abilities at any kind of artistic design far greater than my own, and their sense of normality and pride would most certainly force them to fix everything until it looked as perfect as it had in years past. At least this year, they wouldn't be able to yell at me for not being festive, around, or helpful like last year, as I'd put up the tree and lights and kept a good supply of holiday cookies on the tray just inside the foyer on the kitchen counter (if only for my own enjoyment). There were a few still remaining when we walked inside and I swiped one as Vaughn shut the door behind him.   
  
"Mind if I take a quick shower?" he asked, tossing his shoes next to mine near the door.   
  
"Go right ahead," I answered. He brushed by me like a summer wind, planting a soft kiss upon my skin before disappearing, the feeling of his presence lasting far longer than I'd expected, the imprint of his lips on my cheek warming me through as the water snapped on in the bathroom and the apartment was filled with white noise and daydreams.   
"How does it _do_ that?"   
  
He'd come out from his shower in remnants left in his solitary drawer – a pair of work-out sweats for an impromptu morning jog and an old t-shirt from nights when Will and Francie were around and insistent on us being social – and towel dried hair, his feet bare as he padded softly across the carpeting to the couch. I'd spent my time while he was in the shower making some coffee, years of depending on the caffeinated substance making me completely addicted and craving it no matter what time of day (or night) it was. Outside, the sun was falling over the edge of the horizon, the fruits of our labor flashing into the approaching darkness and bringing a smile to my face as I handed him a mug and curled a leg under me as I sat on the sofa facing him.   
  
"Do what?" he asked, taking an appreciative sip. He sighed and licked his lips. "Oh, thank you. I needed this."   
  
I tugged on a runaway strand of hair sticking straight up on his head. "Do that."  
  
He shrugged. "Just does. Can be annoying sometimes. This coffee is perfect."   
  
"Thanks," I grinned. My eyes drifted to the large front window he'd previously tried to break a few times, watching the alternating patterns of lights flash and twinkle. For some reason, butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I thought of the fact that I just hung holiday lights with my boyfriend, the act of us working together as a couple to do something so incredibly normal and every-day, exciting me and granting me a sense of being special that could rival the first time I'd walked around his apartment in only one of his pressed Oxfords wrinkled slightly from events of the night before.   
  
Behind me, Vaughn gave another sigh. His cup clanked down on the glass coffee table as his weight shifted. "C'mere."  
  
I turned, hair brushing over my shoulder, and smiled broadly as I scooted back across the worn yet soft cushions to fall into his waiting embrace, his arms circling around my waist and pulling me against his warm chest before I had a chance to put down my own mug of coffee. He plucked it from my hand and placed it gently on the table next to his and stretched his legs out so I was on his lap.   
  
"They don't look so bad from inside," he observed. I blinked, trying to figure what he was talking about. "The lights," he supplemented, "they look fine from here."   
  
"Mmhmm."   
  
"But your tree is sad," he continued. I laid my head down upon his chest, ear pressed against the cage outside his beating heart, and twisted my head to examine the tree. I didn't see anything wrong with it – the popcorn and cranberry garland we'd started had been finished by an insomnia-struck Will, a few ornaments placed up with care by Francie and myself in passing, and the skirt, a relic from my own childhood, was brushed free of wrinkles underneath the already shedding tree. In fact, my tree looked so good, I was surprised catalog photographers weren't lined up outside my door waiting to take a picture.   
  
"What's wrong with it?"   
  
His eyes appeared next to my face suddenly, his lips next to my ear planting a soft kiss upon my lobe before hot breath rippled over it as he spoke. In short, it was driving me crazy. "It's missing the most important thing."  
  
I frowned. "Vaughn, I already told you, we broke the star for the top a few years ago during a New Years Eve party."   
  
"You never told me the details of _that_…"  
  
"How was your night in jail last year?" I countered. He blushed and let his head fall back against the throw pillow he'd propped up behind him.   
  
"Didn't you hear the whole story from Officer Berk?"   
  
His voice was full of embarrassment, and I took one of his hands in mine and gave it a squeeze. Of course I'd heard the story from Berk, one of the two 'crashers' of Weiss' outrageous holiday party, while Vaughn was helping Weiss to the kitchen and dumped cold water over his best friend's head. Berk had been amused, to say the least, with Vaughn's sad jaunt behind bars, and said he'd slept most of time avoiding a robber named Mickey and his wheelman, an old man with four teeth they called Big Poppa. It hadn't been his best night, but no one could have a good day every day.   
  
And there was no way I was telling him about New Years. That was a story never to be told ever again.   
  
"I'll take that as a yes," he mumbled. "But that's not what I was taking about."   
  
"Enlighten me."   
  
He shifted, pulling his arm back slightly and in such a way that his hand rubbed against the skin just above my waistband, his skin warmer than the air around us, sticky moisture left over from the shower rubbing his fingers against me rougher than normal. His voice was thick from the echo of his chest behind me when he spoke.   
  
"Presents."   
  
I smirked. "Presents?"   
  
"Yes. It looks so lonely without anything underneath it," he retorted, pointing to the tree. I didn't see a problem with the empty space beneath it. Without presents cluttering up the floor under the tree, the skirt that I'd so painstakingly retrieved and put around the base to hide it would be hidden from view. And really, what was the point of a skirt if you weren't going to see it?   
  
"Unlike you," I replied, "who was able to sit around all day and watch ESPN, I had to work."   
  
He groaned behind me, reassuring me that he, too, was upset about that one detail. Kendall seemed adamant when he told me I wouldn't be getting the holidays off as I'd requested, and after waking up this morning to a slumbering Vaughn, I realized that holidays included the three days before. That, or he'd asked for extra days and gotten them. Why he was able to sleep the day away (something I hadn't been able to do since my early college days) while I had to continuously return to work and take care of mindless paperwork was a mystery I hoped to rectify with my own request, a copy of the one submitted to Kendall, that I sent straight to Devlin's office.   
  
I hadn't told Vaughn, though. It was obvious he was planning something for me, that everyone but me was in on it, and I was curious to see how a rejected vacation request was going to factor into his planning.   
  
"What does that have to do with presents?"   
  
I snorted and tilted my head back to look up at his eyes. "I don't get mine gift-wrapped at the store."   
  
"What can I say?" he shrugged, holding up his thumbs. "I plan ahead."   
  
"Right" I scoffed. "The list."   
  
"I threw the list away," he replied softly. "I didn't need it."   
  
His change in tone surprised me, slightly, and I twisted atop him until I was looking down into his face, a hand on either side of his head, balanced precociously on the plush cushions underneath us. They wobbled slightly until they found their balance of equilibrium brought on by my feet, toes stuck firmly next to his own, buckled in to lean against him. My hair fell around us, hiding the rest of the world from view, blinders to keep us focused on only each other and not trees or lights or old Christmas cookies. Just me and him lying together on my couch on a damn cold LA night.   
  
I ran a hand through his damp hair, my fingers running down the side of his face with the aid of the left-over water. "I already have my present," I smiled down on him. His hands found their place in the curve of my hips, pulling me down to him in that subtle yet inviting manner he was able to pull off without a hitch. Lowering my face to his, I kissed his bottom lip before pulling away to swoop in on his jaw line.   
  
"What happened to not opening your presents until Christmas?" he asked in shallow, rushed breaths, his thumbs running circles over my skin. I laughed and hovered just over his lips now, his breath warm against mine as his wide eyes were plastered to my face.   
  
"It was just too good of a gift to wait."   
  
He leaned his head up from the throw pillow it had been resting on and captured my lips with his, tugging me down atop him as he decided to show me just how much fun I could have with my early gift.   



	18. 12 Days of Christmas, Part 11

**Title**: Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Fluff  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.  
  


Here it is, kids, the second to last chapter of this crazy ride, just a month or so overdue.  If you feel you're going to go through fic withdrawal and actually like my writing, give Chronic Vertigo a try. It's long, and will most certainly keep you entertained - it's v. long, romantic, and has a plot.  

**Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas**

Part 11: 11 Pipers Piping

_On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me:_

_11 Pipers Piping_

_10 Lords a Leaping_

_9 Ladies Dancing_

_8 Maids a Milking_

_7 Swans a Swimming_

_6 Geese a Laying_

_5 Golden Rings_

_4 Calling Birds_

_3 French Hens_

_2 Turtle Doves_

_and__ a Partridge in a Pear Tree_

For all my memory, I could not remember being more comfortable than I was at that moment, sleep fading from the edge of my consciousness like the moon passing round the world for a slumber of its own. The prospect of being able to stay in this position for the remainder of the day – whatever was left of it as there was no clock within sight – was more appealing than the alternative, paperwork and intel from the shattered remains of my old office that needed more than a novice eye to analyze and report on. Mountains of it cluttered empty offices and back-up hard drives in the underground JTF to the point of insanity; the tasking of agents to go over all of it becoming Kendall's favorite activity. 

In fact, he took such great joy in this task, I was dreading not only getting up, but the phone call I was sure to expect once the clock ticked a minute past nine am. Even in my half-awake state, I wrinkled my nose at the thought and stretched, mindless of the reasoning for my immensely comfortable slumber and as my arms climbed above my head, they came in contact with something firm and unyielding. My pillow shifted and groaned, something it most certainly hasn't done before, and I quickly pulled my arms back, confused. Why my pillow had suddenly developed the ability to make noise other than the occasional rustle as I tossed and turned at night was the main question on my mind, and being the adventurous woman I was, I popped one brown eye open and fixated it on where my headboard was supposed to be. 

"Good morning to you, too," the impromptu pillow commented, rubbing his nose with a free hand. I grinned bashfully and cuddled up closer to him, arms wrapping around his torso as I sandwiched myself further between his body and the back of the couch. The free arm came down around my back, dragging me closer against him as he smothered his face in my hair and planted kisses on my crown. It tickled a bit as senses woke up in their own slow fashion.

"Sorry." 

"Oh, for hitting me in the face?" he replied as he now stretched his own arms above his head. "Not the first time you've done it." 

"Seriously?" 

He nodded. "Seriously."

"You know what we need?" I asked suddenly, twisting around to rest my chin against his collarbone. He peered down at me and wrinkled his brow. 

"Help?"

"Coffee." 

Now Vaughn takes his coffee in a very particular and non-guy way, adding so much sugar he could bake a cake with what he puts in his coffee. Using the right balance of milk and sugar, he manages to turn a dark bean roast into a cocktail drink complete with the sweet taste and mind-altering after effects that send him on a hyper spree. It personifies in power-walks where a lethargic stroll would be more befitting, and babbling like I've never seen. He usually hides during these times, or drives Weiss insane with pen clicking and a motor leg under his desk, being unused to sharing desk space after his promotion and office. 

Because of this, I usually make it a point to get to the coffeemaker first, roasting caffeinated, dark beans picked up in the self-grinding aisle of Vons before he had a chance to throw in some French Vanilla and cause me to suffer. With that glint in my eyes, bordering on troublesome, I tapped his nose and rolled over his body and off the couch. 

His laugher filled my wake as I padded to the kitchen. 

Coffee preparation takes almost no effort now, and before I knew it, he was ambling over to the counter and plopping down on one of the stools, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. I plopped a mug down in front of him, shoved over the sugar dish, and pointed to the refrigerator. 

"If you're going to put that in, get it yourself." 

He grunted in acknowledgement and started pouring in sugar packets. 

I gazed at my boyfriend across the counter and tilted my head to the side. You could just see the change, the heat of my gaze seeping into him until he could stand it no longer and looked up, almost frightened. Brow wrinkling, he asked, "What?" 

"It's Christmas Eve," I announced. 

He nodded, and took another sip of his own coffee. 

"And I have to work." 

Another nod. 

"I'm thinking of playing hooky and finding myself a nice boy downtown."

Another nod. At this point, the assumption that he wasn't truly paying attention, just nodding to keep himself safe from the gaze wouldn't be completely untrue. 

"You know, a nice young one for a day."

His sip had to be a nod. 

"And you're going to buy me a nice present." 

"I already did," he replied after downing the remains of his mug, placing it down on the counter with a clank of ceramic against ceramic. "And if you'd like to play hooky, I'd say my apartment is close to downtown."

I snorted. So he had been listening. "No, it's not." 

"Closer than yours," Vaughn retorted. He was such a smartass early in the morning before any guards or guises of professionalism had their chance to slide into place and keep him in line. But I was stuck on that comment before his try at sarcasm, and slid around the support post to lean against it a few feet to his right, drawing the line at batting my eyelashes. 

"You bought me a present?" 

He smiled and took a step in my direction. "Of course I did." 

"What is it?" Was I bouncing? Because my father told me that when I was little, I used to bounce when asking about presents and cakes and surprises. He simply shook his head in that 'silly girl' way and scanned the room for the morning paper. It had to be something nice if he wasn't even going to give me a clue. That, or something incredibly predictable that someone as clever as I would be able to figure it out from even the most vague of clues. 

So I tried for something that had worked for women throughout time. 

I pouted. 

He found the paper and snatched it from the end of the counter, giving a chuckle as his eyes swept over me. "I'm not going to tell you, Syd. You'll just have to wait." 

I didn't want to wait, but then again, I wasn't known to be the most patient person in the room. He dug through the paper for the sports page and was about to reclaim his spot on the couch when his cell phone rang from across the room. Groaning, Vaughn threw the section down on a cushion as he made his way to his jacket hanging in the front hall, pulling the phone from the inside pocket. 

"Vaughn," he answered. I watched as the joyful expression of playfulness fell from his face, replaced with a mask of worry and perhaps disappointment in the blink of an eye. Wrinkles furrowed upon his forehead as he nodded and gave an "uh huh" every twenty seconds or so. 

His change in temperament caused me to abandon my own mug and move against the short wall separating the front hall from the living room. I placed a hand on his shoulder, a soft, tender touch that guided his face to me, his free hand giving me the 'one minute' sign before he twisted away deeper into the front hall and continued to speak with hushed tones. He hung up before I could let my curiosity mix with anger, and slipped the phone back in its pocket before running a hand through sleep-matted hair. 

"Looks like you're not the only one going into work today." 

This couldn't be good. 

I was really trying to heed yesterday's lesson from my front yard and find the good in everything. I'd been expecting to go into work today, but having Vaughn with me made the chore a bit more tolerable, and we must have passed at least 50 couples parading down the streets of LA on their day off on Christmas Eve day. Most businesses were closed, and if not, they only required their employees to stay for a half day. You'd think being a federal employee meant you were allotted bankers hours, but the CIA had never heard of the word holiday, and sick days were an illusion. I had yet to meet anyone who'd used one when actually sick; most opting to come in when sick and taking a chance using their free days off for when they wanted to relax and do nothing for a day. 

We were running a bit late. We'd showered together to save time (which backfired completely), taken a bit longer than usual to get ready for the day, and rushed out of the house with coats flowing out behind us as he unlocked and started the car just as I was shutting the front door. I have to admit, the man knows how to fill out a suit, and while I loved looking at him without it on, I couldn't help but appreciate him clothed in well-tailored suits every day. He took my hand in his as soon as we jumped out of the car in the parking garage, and with a cursory look at the dashboard clock, we rushed up the stairs to the main floor, slowing a bit as we passed a few weary agents on our way to the main floor of the JTF. 

He dropped my hand just as Kendall was approaching. 

"You're late," he stated. Neither of us said a word, and the director scowled before handing Vaughn a file. He snatched it from Kendall's hand and flipped it open, scanning it as Kendall continued to speak. "We received this intel yesterday and need it checked out ASAP." 

I didn't like being out of the loop. "Wait, what's going on?" 

"One of my contacts has information for the CIA," Vaughn sighed. 

"_Your_ contacts?" 

"Miss Hastings will be more," and here Kendall paused, "_receptive_ to Agent Vaughn." 

Wait a second. Vaughn, my boyfriend, was being sent out on an intel retrieval because he was, and this point I have to agree on, a good looking man? 

"Jesus, Syd, I'm sorry," he whispered in a Kendall-free corner of the JTF. His hand was gripping my shoulder, the fabric bunching around his fingers as he squeezed it like he had during those times when we wanted to be together and couldn't, sending reassuring vibes to me through the simplicity of touch. 

"It's not your fault," I echoed. He shook his head. I was sure this was one of those times when he'd tell me to stop blaming things on myself; that I had little control over the world and what it threw at me. He always seemed to be saying that to me, telling me what I could and couldn't control, and in turn, what I shouldn't worry about. Sometimes, even though I knew everything he said within me, I just needed to hear it. Validation is one of the most powerful ways of reassurance and support. 

Instead, he ran a hand down his face that spread tiredness, not remove it. "If I leave now, I can get on a midnight flight back, be here in the morning." 

"You'll be exhausted."

"I'd rather be here with you as a zombie than across the ocean without you, awake."

He rather abruptly drew me to him, wrapping his arm round my shoulders and holding me steadfast as if recording a memory. His head dropped to my shoulder. My hand came around to rest on the crown of his head, fingers weaving in and out of his short, boyish hair. 

"I don't want to leave you," he mumbled against the cloth of my blazer. 

I sighed and leaned my head against his, protocol and professionalism be damned. 

"I don't want you to leave, either."

I was in a wild frenzy the instant we left, the piles atop my desk abandoned to the agents remaining as I snuck out in a rush of passing interns who's faces were as long as mine (though for completely different reasons). My insistence on dropping by my apartment before boarding his plane grew to such levels he refused to enter the apartment with me as soon as we arrived, and I hopped out of the car and into the house with light feet. 

His staying in the car worked to my advantage, my hands throwing open my closet with a flourish befitting a prize-winning exhibit, the doors pounding against the wall on each side as I stretched up and gripped the hatbox balanced on the top shelf. Fingertips brushed against the sides, and for a moment I feared it too would fall to the ground in a shower of old memories, but I finally gained a grip and dragged it down from its high perch. Like a dancer, I swung around and deposited it on the bed, ripping the lid off before searching for the item tucked at the bottom. 

My present. 

If Vaughn was forced to endure a holiday he so desperately wished to spend with me out of the country against his will, the least I could do was give him his Christmas gift. A moment of happiness before he flew off into the sunset, metaphorically, I'm sure, judging by the time. I'd been able to unwrap my perfect gift early, setting aside whatever he was planning for me (and doing a poor job of keeping secret), and it was only befitting that he be able to do the same. 

I tucked the frame, complete with the picture lifted from Vaughn's apartment a few days ago into my jacket's deep pocket and left the room, hatbox still spilled across my bedspread, a collage of the happy moments in life that got me from one bad day to the next. 

He pointed at the clock the second I slid into the passenger seat. "I'm going to be late." 

"You should just not go," I tried as he shifted the car into drive and sped off down the street. I'm pretty sure he never was late for school as a child, and the idea of skipping classes in college to hang out with friends at a local bar never crossed his mind. His apprehension about leaving matched my own, but duty to country came before any personal feelings or matters no matter what the reasons might be for trying to avoid an assignment. His hand slipped over my own on a jumping knee, his fingers lacing between mine. As we passed through another green stoplight and our time together progressively shortened, his thumb rubbed up and down the side of my hand in slow, steady strokes that showed his own distaste with the newest roadblock in our lives. 

The car ride proceeded in silence, the engine humming with bursts of speed until he pulled into the small parking lot outside the contracted air strip. He turned off the engine and let his keys clank together as they dropped from his hand, still in the ignition. 

"Gotta go," he sighed. He leaned forward to give me a kiss, and while I'm more than willing to kiss him at any time of the day or night (except with my father in the room, for I fear he'd kill Vaughn with his bare hands), there were more important matters to attend to. 

I drew the frame from my pocket and thrust it up between us so I was face to face with the black velvet backing, the tips of his spiked hair giving it an odd crown of dark blond. He grew deathly silent, strong fingers wrapping around the edge of the silver frame as he took it from my grip. As he bought it down from blinding eye level to a distance where his eyes could actually focus on it, I was privy to his face; his mouth open as his jaw hung down, eyes soft as he examined the photo in the frame. 

"Syd," he breathed. "How…wha….?"

"Do you like it?" 

He held it out in front of him, a hand on either side of the frame. "He wouldn't let me go play tag with the other kids," he started, "said it was too dark and dinner would be ready soon." Vaughn took a deep sigh. "I was eight. This was – "

Oh my God, he didn't need to finish that sentence. Standing outside with his father who was using the impeding darkness as an excuse to keep him around as most parents did, wishing for just a little more time with their children before running off for work the next day. My father even pleaded in his own way to keep me in when he was home between missions and meetings. The depth of the perfect picture I'd chosen from his box of jumbled snapshots fell on me as he fingered his father's figure under the glass. 

"This is perfect," he told me as engines whirled in the world outside his car and the clock clicked over to 1pm. "Absolutely perfect."

"Sorry I couldn't wrap it."

He leaned over and kissed me sweetly, his lips tasting of sugar and cream leftover from his morning coffee. Well, there was one good thing about his choice of additives. I kept my hand on his shoulder as long as I could, until the hum of the jet engine outside grew louder and more impatient as his lips lingered on, and he threw me a huge smile complete with tear filled eyes before disappearing into the fuselage. 

I sat back, satisfied for just a moment before exiting the car, watching his plane take off into a perfect blue LA sky. Then I fell into the driver's seat, wrapped myself in his lingering scent, and drove home. 

I'm used to being alone on Christmas Eve. 

Last year was spent with a photo of Danny clutched in my hands as I sat in a sea of forgotten memories, photographs spread around me competing for attention. A glass of wine on my nightstand, soft, comfortable pillows, and a photo were all that got me through last year's holiday, a reminder of not only what I'd lost, but what I'd had before. It's true what they say, that once you have something, you never want what you were once content with. 

And yet, here I was, life completely different yet frighteningly the same, a glass of wine clutched in one hand, a photo in the other. The faces were different, but the sentiment was the same – joy and happiness away from the depressing nature that I'd come to know as the normality of each day. 

I sighed and took a sip of the wine, wishing more than anything for the one present I'd always wanted, which involved my boyfriend, a large red bow, and a roaring fire to snuggle up in front of. I smirked; face surely matching that made in the photo taken a month ago at a company dinner, Vaughn's arms draped around my shoulders from behind, chin resting on the top of my head. 

_All I want for Christmas is you, Vaughn_.

The phone rang and jarred me from my thoughts, the wine in my half-full glass jumping as I threw the photo down and lunged for the phone, picking it up on the second ring. 

"Hello?" I asked breathlessly, hopeful as I clutch it between two hands. There's a brief pause, then:

"Hey there."

My breath caught in my throat, wine plunked down on the nightstand and I sat up straight in bed as if I were speaking to my high school crush. 

"What time is it there? 3?"

"4:27 am," Vaughn replied sleepily. I heard the flap of fabric on the other end followed by him shifting and sighing, getting into bed. "Listen, I know I said I'd be home tomorrow, but – "

"Its fine," I interrupted somewhat dismally, leaning back into my own pillows. "I understand."

"It's not fine. Things have just – God, and you know I had something planned for you and now, well, I won't even be there to give it to you."

Ah ha! I was right! He _had_ been planning something!

"It can wait until you get home."

He sighed. "Yeah. I just…I wanted this Christmas to be special. It's our first together, well, not really."

"Things happen."

"I hear you finally got your vacation request approved," he said quickly, changing the topic from his failed attempt to sweep me off my feet to my triumph over Kendall and his Scrooge-like work policy. "That'll be nice – I don't think I'll be needed here any longer than tomorrow, if that."

"Finding a flight's going to be hard," I pointed out. 

"I'm sure the agency can figure something out."

"Yeah," I automatically replied, my mind still trying to wrap itself around the fact that not only was I going to be alone on Christmas eve, but on Christmas day as well. I could still call my father; see if he could pull himself away from work long enough to sit at a meal with me, but it just wouldn't be the same. To him, it would be an obligation, an interruption to his daily routine that paused not even for special days and holidays. Will and Francie were off with Will's family for a few days, and a drive out to their home wasn't something to look forward to alone. 

"You sound horrible," he observed. 

"Naw. Don't worry about it. Just get yourself home in once piece."

"Yes, ma'am."

I sat back in my bed, simply content with listening to him breathe over the line, the distance between us seemingly shorter for an instant. But in the end, I was ultimately alone. For so long I'd worried about this happening, too weak, or frightened, rather, to ask to join him in his visit to – 

"Vaughn?" I asked, suddenly hopeful. 

"Hrmm?" he purred lazily. I took a deep breath and mustered up courage. 

"Don't you usually spend the holidays with your mom?" 

"Yeah."

"Well, umm, is she – "

"You're a brilliant woman," he suddenly perked up, awake. "Absolutely astounding. That is, if you're thinking what I think you are."

"I'm sure I can find her house, if you give me the address," I continue meekly. 

"You're a life saver, really. I was expecting to return home to certain death for leaving her alone tomorrow."

"You were still planning to take me to meet her?"

"Among other things," he said. "Syd, I know you said you weren't ready, but, well, I figured it was like a cold pool. You've got to jump in and once you get past the initial shock, its fine."

"No, I think I just had cold feet."

"I knew there was a reason I kept you around," he laughed, warming my heart from across an ocean. "Let me just give you her address. God, she's going to be _thrilled_. I know this doesn't make up for me not being there, but I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

Oh, I'm sure I can. It wasn't his fault he'd been called out last-minute. I just felt bad for him; he'd gone through so much, planned so much, and now, he wasn't even going to be around to give it to me. Fate certainly acted independently of desire, and he was getting the short end of the stick. Maybe, if I quickly drafted a letter to Santa, I could not only help give him a break for once, but find out once and for all what his wish was, because as it stood now, he was never going to tell me. 

--

Please don't kill me. TRUST in Kira. I'm nicer than JJ. :) See you all next week with the last chapter!


	19. 12 Days of Christmas, Part 12

**Title**: Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas  
**Author**: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]  
**Genre**: Romance/Fluff  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Disclaimer**: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.  
Author's Note: Special thanks to KarenB for the beta.  
I have to say a few things before you all get started. First off, I came into writing this fic a bit skeptical; I've been writing this to balance myself out from the angst that is Chronic Vertigo. But as I wrote the last words, I was almost in tears. Writing this has been an absolute joy in every sense of the world. Thank you to EVERYONE who has read and commented, or simply read. Coming over to read your comments has been wonderful. And thanks to the girls who've rec'ed me a few times on TWOP - that is a true honor.   
  
I truely hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I did writing it. And look out - another 'arch' in this story has started to form in my head. So, while you're waiting, check out the rest of my fics.   
  
But first and foremost, thank you. 

------- 

_"They gave each other a smile with a future in it."_  
- Ring Lardner

I'd always gotten the impression that Vaughn's mother lived close by. His comments and apparent lack of any sort of jet lag or large amount of time surrounding a trip to his mother's house seemed to support that theory. The first Thanksgiving I knew him, he'd gone to see her instead of spending it with his girlfriend at the time, and subsequent holidays had been spent a phone call away, but meetings were few and far between. Part of the reason I'd wished to spend this Christmas with him instead of his voicemail when the pain of the recent months had caught up to me and wine had guided my fingers across the phone's keypad.

Yet despite all my wishing, despite not only my efforts, but his own, life had once again kept us apart at those times when normal couples were forced to be together. If only that could apply to us and our constant state of occurrences; I know I'd be waking up to him and his poor excuse for a breakfast and not an empty plane taxiing down a runway. 

Yes, Amélie Vaughn, as I'd learned her name the night before as Vaughn excitedly rattled off her address, lived in San Francisco. My previous plan of driving up to her house had flow out the window as soon as he'd said that part, the idea of driving seven hours on Christmas morning not an attractive one. He'd laughed at me, naturally, and told me a fifty minute flight up there was not bad at all, and he'd often used the time to clear his head and think up excuses as to why he didn't call her as much as she'd like him to. 

I couldn't picture him as anything other than the perfect son, and told him so. 

"Well, I've been distracted lately," had been his sly response, and I only felt a little bad for keeping him from his mother. 

He was right about thinking on the plane. While other families, the two others sitting on the plane for similar reasons, sat chatting and playing, children running down the narrow aisle, I was thinking up exactly what I was going to say to Amélie upon meeting her. 

Well, calling her Amélie was one thing I _wasn't_ going to do. 

But other than that, how much did she know? The phone call last night ended sooner than I'd liked, with Vaughn actually falling asleep on the line as I babbled on and on about everything and anything I could think of. He didn't go very many places without me anymore, but that didn't ease the separation anxiety I was feeling, and shouted into the phone selfishly for just a few more minutes of his attention. 

But none of these questions had come up during that time. Did she know about the CIA, about what exactly Vaughn did on a daily basis? Had he told her about me? And if he had, how much did she know? Hanging above my head like a bright neon sign was the most important question, and that had to do with my mother and her connection to Mrs. Vaughn's late husband. It wasn't my place to tell her, yet I felt it was something that needed to be said, that she shouldn't like me and then learn the truth. 

Damn it, why hadn't I asked Vaughn before he'd hung up? 

I considered calling him then and there, pulling the airphone from the back of the seat and risking the charges for an international call from the airplane just to ask him the answer to that blinking question resting on my shoulders, but figured he'd be out of his room by now, rushing to finish up his mission so he could get home to me by tonight. If he wasn't in the air already. 

Okay. Avoid the issue. Pretend everything was nice and perfect. Leave it to Vaughn to explain it all to her, to deal with it along with his mother when she found the closure she'd most probably been searching for the last twenty years. It was Christmas, after all, and I was supposed to be cheerful and thankful for all I had. 

Except that I wasn't, and the one thing I truly had, the one connection and immaterial thing I was forever thankful for was currently halfway around the world. 

With all these thoughts swirling around my head, the flight went relatively fast, the captain's voice echoing around the cabin sooner than I'd excepted as the stewardess swept down the aisle to collect garbage, seeming out of place in my mind as I felt we'd just taken off. She flashed me a fake grin helped along by hundreds of dollars of make-up, poorly selected and applied, and tossed my pop can in her airline stamped garbage bag. 

I guess it was time to face the woman I'd feared facing for the last two weeks. 

A taxi collected me at the curb and I handed the address over to the driver, smiling slightly at the blinking lights plugged into his cigarette lighter and tinsel looped around the rear-view mirror as he took the piece of paper, gave a gruff response, and hit the accelerator. He seemed surprised I didn't react as he cut off three merging cars, and grinned full out as he swerved across four lanes of traffic to get off at the correct exit. 

"What brings you here?" 

I snapped out of beach daydreams of warm summer nights and looked up at the driver as we cruised down narrow San Francisco streets, the hills bouncing my stomach as we rolled over them. 

"Meeting someone," I replied, ever careful with the information I supplied. He grins and nods, taking a fluid left. 

"Alone? A pretty woman like you should not be alone on Christmas."

I sighed and leaned against the window. "My boyfriend's out of the country."

"Ah. Business takes him away. But why did he let it?"

"He wasn't able to decline," I stated slowly. 

"I'm sure he wanted to."

"I know he did. I just…wish he could have."

The driver pulled to a stop outside a nice moderately sized home, wisteria climbing up the front porch and the pillars just outside it, a garden large and healthy sitting under the front windows. My hand lingered on the handle longer than it should have, drawing the driver's attention. 

"His mother?"

"Yeah."

"Ahh...he must really love you to send you here," the driver said. "My wife didn't meet my mother until we'd been married for three years! Men love their mothers, you know. He trusts you."

"I trust him," I smiled, feeling a new sense of joy. Even without snow, it suddenly felt like Christmas. Handing the fare over the seat, I stepped out of the car and stood on the curb long after the taxi sped off, suddenly self-conscious. Did I look alright? Was I presentable? Would she like me? I'd mulled over these questions when getting dressed that morning, but the anxiety came back in full force as I forced my feet to start up the walk, legs moving robotically in stiff, blocky motions. The sweet scent of wisteria invaded my nose the closer to the door I got, and I forced back a sneeze with a hand over my nose. 

An allergy I never knew about? 

Whatever the case, I was sniffling by the time my hand reached the doorbell. And just as my finger was hovering above the gold plated plaque surrounding the pearl white button, a realization hit me in the head so hard, I fell backwards into the railing running the length of the double-sided front porch. Stars swam before my eyes as I wondered what Vaughn's mother was going to think of a girl she didn't know showing up unexpectedly on Christmas morning saying she was, in fact, her son's girlfriend who was incredibly lonely with him being off on a mission in a foreign country. 

"_Mon dieu!_" 

I blinked a few times, clearing cobwebs from my vision, and pushed myself up to lean against one of the tall pillars standing on either side of the front steps. My head throbbed with each pulsating beat of blood rushing to what was most certainly going to be a bruise, and I looked up at the door as to scowl at it and its epiphany giving ways. 

Instead, I found myself looking up into the stormy blue eyes of an older petite French woman who appeared as stricken as I felt. "_Etes- vous bien_?" she asked, and I rubbed my head, wincing as I tried to figure out what she'd asked. 

"Owww," I whined. She stooped down, and put a soft hand on the side of my face, pulling my head forward, pushed it back, and examined my forehead. I flinched as she leaned over and parted my hair around the area where I'd banged my head into the pillar, and clicked her tongue. She swam in from of my face for just a moment, sitting back on her heels, and I blinked one final time in an effort to clear her up into a single person and not fragments of several identical twins. 

"I'm so sorry! I was rushing out the door and did not know anyone was there," she gushed. I nodded, giving her a half-wink as I slid myself up the pillar and swayed on my feet upon planting them, once again, firmly on the ground below me. 

That really hurt. 

"You've got quite the bump on your forehead, there," she remarked, pointing to it's location with a bony finger. "But the back of your head seems fine."

I resisted the deep urge to hurt the screen door behind her. "Thanks."

"At least," – she paused to repair a bent vine of wisteria – "you have a head thicker than my son's." 

"Oh?" I probed. She nodded once the vines were to her satisfaction with a smile I'd seen before. 

"He used to fall on his head all the time; his bumps were purely comical in their size," she grins with soft eyes and a bemused expression. Oh dear God, she's trying to figure out who I am and what I'm doing on her porch on Christmas. "The size of grapefruits," was her addition that masked the sound of me trying desperately to clear my throat and find my voice. 

"I'm – "

"I know who you are, Sydney," the Vaughn matriarch interrupted. "My son called this morning to tell me you'd be coming."

"Uh…yeah," I muttered. She was sharp; I had to give her that. Her head cocked to the side and she gave that look I was used to receiving from my father when I spoke out of turn in the middle of an intelligence briefing. 

"Come now, you must have some manners," she chided. 

Vaughn's gift list made a bit more sense now. "I'm Sydney Bristow," I smiled, holding out my hand. Amélie took it in her own and shook it with a grip stronger than I would have expected. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Vaughn." 

She grabbed the mass of envelopes hanging out of the iron mailbox attached to the siding beside the door and waved me in with the group of bills and well-wishes, gold-leaf trimming an overly fancy card catching the sun as her arm waved. I was powerless to resist her stunning smile and sharp eyes, and blushed a bit as she held the screen door open as I walked through. 

This wasn't the house Vaughn grew up in, but I felt the same swell of emotion as I walked through the door and into the sunlit walkway with Amélie just behind me, I'd feel if it had been. The home was just that; a home like any other, with warm tones and the welcoming scent of fresh baked goods just from the oven, a sprinkling of Christmas cookies and the snap of ginger invading my senses as she beckoned me through the front foyer and never-used living room to the spacious kitchen beyond. 

The tones were yellow, a perfect match to the retro chair she practically pushed me into. I let my fingers run over the floral pattern of the square table and made a note to myself to get the woman some modern furniture the next time I won the lottery. 

But Amélie Vaughn seemed at ease in the kitchen from another era, moving around in a flurry of activity while she pulled a cookie sheet from the oven and set it on the counter with calloused and aged fingers. I watched as she worked, carefully piling the cookies onto a cooling rack before she moved off to procure me a glass of tap water and a bag of ice. 

"I really am terribly sorry about that," she soothed, pressing the bag to my forehead. I winced with a sharp hiss of breath, and took control of holding the ice to my head from her. She smiled weakly and set my water down before taking a seat next to me at the table. 

"No problem, really," I told her. "I've had worse." 

"So you're Sydney," she grinned, brushing aside my comment. I realized, as she smiled up to the eyes, that it was one she'd heard countless times before from her son, and wished for a rewind button and a VCR of my day thus far. "I've heard a lot about you." 

"You have?" 

She laughed like a sprinkling of sugar. "Michael talks about you constantly. 'Sydney this…' 'Sydney that…' I wanted to meet you so I could have a moment's peace!" 

I smiled back at her and shifted the ice over my growing bruise. 

"It's too bad about him being out of town for the holidays," she remarked just as I was taking a sip of cool water. I sputtered, my hand covering my mouth to hide my slip of manners, and looked up at her wide-eyed. 

She seemed confused. "A bust, or something of the sort, on Christmas, of all days. How he went from an economics major to an officer for the ATF is beyond me." 

The sharp pain I felt in my chest clued me into a loose Alice reference and redirected my memory to the cover I'd been given in relation to her state of being clueless in regards to her boyfriend. At least with a cover with the ATF, he wouldn't have to worry about his extensive knowledge of guns and firearms someone in the economics field wouldn't have. At least that answered the job question; Vaughn had kept his mother in the dark about his true place of employment, a move I could respect. There was no use worrying her when there was no need to do so, but I felt for him the day she figured out he'd been lying to her for all these years. 

Noncommittal was the way to go in this situation, and I simply shrugged and took a drink of water once I was sure doing so was safe. 

"You have a beautiful home." 

Once my eyesight returned to normal, devoid of large black splotches swimming across my vision, I could truly appreciate the house, a juxtaposed assortment that crossed two continents and forty years. Out with the old, in with the new didn't seem to sit well with the matriarch, her cluttered kitchen and living room beyond filled with relics from happier times before she became the sole provider for her aging family. If my head wasn't pounding with the precise tune of an oncoming headache of gigantic proportions, I would have wandered from my seat at the scratched Formica table and examined everything I could before my rudeness got the best of me. 

The decorations were minimal, set up by a solitary person to lift her own spirits and welcome – 

"Excuse me, Mrs. Vaughn," I started, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand. 

"Amélie, please." 

Well, I'd already concluded I wasn't going to go _there_, and nodded with a small, forced smile. "Well, are you going to be, I mean – "

"What are you doing here, Sydney?" 

Her earnest tone took me by surprise while clueing me in to her hospitable yet questioning nature, her question not one to be followed- up with an invitation to see the door. More philosophical in nature, though not requiring a four hour chat about how I viewed myself in the grand scheme of things (a topic, I assure you, I'd pondered several times since my life became more complicated, and even more so as it appeared to simplify itself). Literal seemed the way to go, my analytical mind probing the words and tone for exactly what she was asking about. 

It was a good question, one that, if I ever left this life of extended servitude to my country, I might put on a test for my English class as they analyzed a great novel. 'Why was that character there?' with an annotation to clarify it extended past the physical. 

I couldn't help but stray in that direction. Even if I'd stayed home, the empty feeling settled in the center of my chest like a heavy meal would have remained, and even sitting across the table from someone else did little to alleviate it. 

"I couldn't stand to be alone again," I confessed with a rush of air. She gave a look so strong; I was almost knocked from my seat by its shear magnitude. But it softened slowly in the silence of the kitchen, the emptiness of the house, and I knew she understood. 

Amélie's shift was slight, a slip of one hand over the other upon the tabletop. "I see." 

I felt like a fool sitting there, in that woman's kitchen moaning about being alone for one Christmas when she had spent almost thirty alone and would continue to do so, kept company only by Vaughn. 

Did he come up here last year? Fly for two hours after giving me my gift?

My gift. 

Had I truly been alone last year? Was it possible that even then, when the thoughts of some kind of relationship with Vaughn had just begun to spout he felt the same hope too? His selflessness never ceased to amaze me; how one man could love so passionately and unconditionally seemed next to impossible. In a life that seemed so unblessed, he was the anchor to reality, to the truth. 

My one miracle. 

So what would that kind of man, so close to the gods of the ancient world, want? The singular wish that remained a mystery to me even as I felt I knew him so well. The realm of the physical would mean nothing to him. He loved his mother; was cute, devoted, caring – so what was I missing? What was the one clue my detective mind had missed? 

I gasped and brought a hand to my mouth, ice bag fluttering to the floor with a dull thwap. 

Over Amélie's right shoulder hung a picture of her younger self, arms of a loving husband encircling her waist. Snow dotted their eyelashes as it fell around them, and I knew without even turning the photo over it was from 1963. 

"Excuse me," I breathed, standing as if caught in a dream, "I need to make a phone call." 

..

I was thrown into voicemail as soon as I reached the front foyer. 

There were only two reasons as to why I'd reach voicemail instead of the person I was calling. Either his phone had died overseas – something that wouldn't reflect well on him once he returned, the charger still plugged in next to his junk drawer filled with take-out menus. Or he'd turned it off. Intentionally. 

Being a scenario I didn't wish to dive into at the moment, I tossed a glance to the kitchen and the baking machine that was Amélie Vaughn. My stomach grumbled in response to the overwhelming sweet smells flowing from the oven and made a note to make my time on the phone short. 

It rang twice before being answered. "This had better be good, Bristow, I'm talking to you instead of eating some pretty damn good chocolate." 

"Why isn't Vaughn's phone on?" 

Weiss groaned. "I feel so used." 

"You know you like it," I joked lightly, smirking. "Anyway, I thought he'd be on his way home by now." 

"He didn't call you?" 

My stomach dropped, Weiss' tone not as jovial as I would have liked at that moment. I took a deep breath and pressed a hand to my forehead. 

"What's going on?" 

"Where are you?" he dodged. I closed my eyes and fell to sit on the bottom stair, leaning my head up against the railing for added support. 

"His mother's," I answered tersely. There was a clatter in the kitchen, and if Weiss hadn't been avoiding the answer to my original question, I would have run off to see what had happened beyond my field of vision. 

"Really? Is she baking? Please tell me she isn't - her cookies are – "

"She's baking," I interjected. "What's going on?" 

"Unforeseen circumstances. I know he promised he'd be out of there this morning, but – I'm sorry, Sydney, but – "

"I need to see him." 

"What?"

"He'll be clear in 12 hours, won't he?" I asked, sitting up straight. "He has to be, Kendall didn't say anything about – "

"Sydney, listen to yourself. You're blabbering on about flying halfway around the world to see Vaughn on Christmas. What makes you think you can even get a flight?" 

The truth of the matter was, I wasn't even thinking about the logistics of it all. I only knew I had to see him, get to him before the clock ticked to midnight and Christmas was over, before this life had stolen from me another moment in my life set aside for me and me alone. 

"I might not be able to," I told him. "But you can." 

"Sydney…"

"C'mon, Weiss, you're always saving our asses, what makes this different?" 

"A trans-Atlantic flight?" he suggested. "Sydney, really, just – "

"Book me on a flight to London, Weiss. Call me back when you have the details." 

I hung up before he had the chance to talk me out of it, to interject some pearl of wisdom about operations procedures and the practicality of a flight halfway around the world to see someone who'd be working just as hard to reach you. But that was the point, wasn't it? My actions weren't brash or impractical if applied to the ideal that Vaughn was working as hard as he could to get to me at that moment; it only seemed logical that I work equally as hard, and do whatever was within my power to get to him. 

And if that meant flying around the world and missing Christmas, so be it. When added to the list of sacrifices we'd made for each other, it didn't rank high enough to be considered a great loss. 

With the promise of seeing Vaughn within the next twelve to fourteen hours, depending on Weiss' speed and abilities from his family's home in Massachusetts, I bounced down the stairs and swung myself around the corner banister back into the kitchen, where Amélie was preparing to take another cooking sheet cluttered with delicious French pastries out of the oven. She almost jumped as I reemerged into her bright kitchen, holding a hand over her heart as I dropped into my recently vacated chair and cradled my cell phone between shaking hands. 

"_Excuséz- moi_," I called over my shoulder. 

"I should be used to it, by now," she remarked, carefully scooping cookies from the tray to a cooling rack next to the oven. I scooted around in my chair to face her, the phone still held tightly in my right hand. "The men in this family can move without making a sound."

"Really?" I asked, smiling. "Because Vaughn's not the most graceful person." 

"Oh, no, that boy was a handful as a child," Amélie continued as she finished her task. "Always falling out of trees or off his bicycle. But I think after falling so much, he's gotten better. It's easier to sneak down the stairs if you've tripped down them and found the squeaking spots."

"Sneak out?" I held back laughter. She sighed and wiped her hands on the front of her apron. 

"Such a rebel. To meet up with his friends and girls; none of which were as beautiful as you," she added as an afterthought. "And with such sparkling French! I knew he'd find a good one."

If there ever was a time to glow, it was then, at the moment when I finally received Vaughn's mother's seal of approval in the sugar coated kitchen pulsating with Christmas cheer. The past had little pull here, as she turned and placed another sheet of dough into the oven and set the timer, content with the daily task backed by years of tradition. Perhaps she'd baked them late Christmas Eve when the mornings would be a montage of torn wrapping paper and new toys. Or maybe she'd bake them after the presents had all been unwrapped and her son lay slumbering under the tree, exhausted as the excitement over the magic of Christmas morning wore off. No matter what the case, she moved with the ease of someone who'd done the motions for years, the cookies stacked in neat rows on the cooling rack in a way I'd never accomplish even after a hundred years. 

"Is anyone else coming today?" 

"Hrmm? Oh, yes, of course. They usually arrive sometime in the afternoon. I suspect they time it so they arrive at precisely the moment I set dinner on the table," she answered, pulling plastic bottles of sprinkles from a spice cabinet near the sink. The glass of water before me was nearing empty, and the smell of spiced cookies made me thirstier than ever. She had just opened a container of green sprinkles when I stood at her side awkwardly to refill my glass. It was one thing to speak casually from across the room, but standing this close to her only made me remember my first apprehension about meeting with her, and I was glad my hair and clothing in no way resembled my mother's. 

"Here," she said, putting a bottle of small-grained red sprinkles in my hand, "why don't you help me?"

It was hard to say no when the bottle was already in my hand, and I gave her a weak, confused smile before uncapping the bottle and stood stiffly over the cookies. I hadn't done anything of this sort since I was five years old, and even with my perfect memory, the logistics of sprinkling were lost on me. Did she have a pattern she followed? A special flick of the wrist? 

But I followed her lead, sprinkling evenly over the tops of butter cookies just after she covered them with green. "I make my cookies Christmas day. That way, they're fresh."

"Fresh," I nodded, covering a snowflake with a storm of red. "Got it."

"You have to wake up at just the right time, you see, or else you'll wake the house too early and by dinner they'll be whining."

"Whining isn't good," I concluded, giving a round cookie a red bozo nose. 

"Why, one year, even the smell of my cookies didn't wake Bill and Michael, and they ended up sleeping until noon."

I stopped, a cascade of red falling onto a poor innocent cookie as I reeled from her shared memory. She grabbed my hand with her aged one, skin soft even after all these years, and tilted the bottle back up until the waterfall slowed to a trickle, then stopped. 

"Don't worry, Sydney," she said softly, "I know." 

"Know?" 

She gave off a sigh and started brushing the red sprinkles off a buried tree shaped cookie. "He told me, you know. Said he wasn't supposed to, but – I've had my closure."

"Oh."

"I had my reservations about your relationship with my Michael," she continued, the brushing growing more aggressive over the eroding face of the cookie. "But he told me something, you know. He said, 'You can't hold her responsible for the mistakes of her mother. Just as you can't hold me responsible for wanting to follow in dad's footsteps.' He's a wise child, wiser than he should be at his age. But then again, so was his father. Who am I to question God's will?" 

Of all the things I'd been expecting, that was the last thing I thought would have happened. 

"Sydney," she said, her accent distorting my name, "make him happy, please. He's had so much sorrow in his life; I want him to have something good, something to make him laugh." 

"I promise."

"Good. Now, tell me, why did you think the tree should be red? And dear me, why did you have to kill it with your sprinkles?" she laughed, brushing the last of the red sprinkles from the perfect tree, and I couldn't help but think that finally, the blood shed in the past had finally been washed from our hands. 

..

My phone promptly rang, vibrated across the table, and clamored to the floor ten minutes after my impromptu conversation with Weiss. 

"Give me good news," I directed at him after retrieving the phone and checking for damages. He huffed, chewed something, and cleared his throat before answering. 

"Get to the airport," he answered between chews, "your flight leaves in an hour, and you know how security is these days."

"Thank you!" I practically screamed. 

"Yeah, yeah, thank my brother the pilot. Merry Christmas, Sydney."

"Merry Christmas, Eric, and I won't forget this."

"Yeah, you'd better not. I expect a box of éclairs on my desk when I get back."

I hung up and kissed the phone as a stand in for Weiss, grinning as I looked up to Amélie and her final batch of cookies. She stood in front of me, a red tin with reindeers dancing across the lid held out to me on her hands. 

"For your trip. Don't eat them all at once, you'll get a horrible stomach ache," she advised, practically pushing the tin into my hands. I took it with a smile, popping open for a peek at the treats inside, smiling as I spied the tree cookie on top, properly sprinkled with green.

"Thank you," I told her, tossing the strap to my purse over my shoulder. "For everything." 

I don't think I needed to say the last part, but did anyway. She pulled me into a hug, kissed my cheek, and sent me on my way. 

..

I've been to airports all over the world at varying times of the day and night. In Moscow, I had free reign of the airport as the sweepers worked on deserted walkways in the dead of night. Paris was a free for all with the crowds of people pushing their ways to destinations and gates, a herd of cattle roaming in one solid block of people. But San Francisco International Airport was practically deserted as the cab dropped me off in front of departures, a few travelers dawdling here and there as they leisurely made their way from gates to a next-to-empty baggage claim. Where I thought there'd be a line at the check-in counter, I found no one and half-expected to see a tumbleweed blow across the floor and make it's way around the ribbons defining line patterns. 

"Hi," I greeted, leaning against the counter. The man behind it, tagged Andrew M., snapped his gum and looked up at me with dull, tired eyes. There was something about his name that seemed oddly familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. 

"Don't be so perky," he almost growled, "I had to wake up at five am."

"I need to pick up a ticket," I replied slowly. "Sydney Bristow?"

There was a click of fingers against the plastic of his keyboard in that wild rush that identified airport workers the world over, and after four thousand keystrokes more than I thought it took to type in my name, he smiled up at me and asked, "Any luggage?" 

"No."

He narrowed his eyes in that way men do when analyzing something and said, "Where are you going that you're flying on Christmas without luggage?" 

"Last minute," I confessed sheepishly. He shrugged and clicked about forty-five thousand keys that must have comprised my ticket information, seating placement and the words "no luggage" in airline language and handed me a small boarding pass. I examined it, then looked back up at him. 

"Boarding pass. We do the check in and everything down here, now. Got your passport?" 

I prayed I'd left it in my purse after Zurich as I dug through it, and was surprised when my fingers brushed against the hard plastic of the first page. I pulled it out and handed it to him. More clicks of the keys, and he handed it back. 

"Have a nice flight," he called as I started away from the counter, "he must be really special if you're doing this on Christmas." 

"He is," I told him over my shoulder. "More than he knows," I mumbled more to myself as I headed to gate 12, wondering why the time and gate number felt so familiar as well. 

..

"This, Sydney," - I tried to find a comfortable position in the coach seat, thankful there was no one sitting in front of me to become irritated as my knees continued to kick into the back of the seat – "was a phenomenally stupid idea."

The original sentiment of my spontaneous flight had started to wear off like Christmas morning excitement faded into the lull of no more presents to unwrap, and I found myself wondering what the hell I was going to do once I got to London. For one, I only had a vague idea as to where Vaughn was staying, not a large amount of cash, no clothes, and a large tin of cookies that I was popping like mad as I stewed in my seat. Twelve hours on this flight were going to drive me insane. 

I ran out of old receipts to examine and stuff in my empty bag of peanuts after two hours, and another three after that found me at the end of the book I'd originally brought along to keep me occupied on my first flight of the day. A man snored loudly two rows behind me, and no matter how high the volume on the headphones for the in flight movie was, I could still hear his loud honk and cough ever minute or so. 

The magazines in the pockets are the most out of date, boring publications on the planet. I suspect they only stayed in print because those reading them had no other refuge and were subjected to them against their will. 

The man behind me woke up, gave a loud hoot, and fell back asleep. 

And then, so did I. 

. . 

I don't sleep much on planes. It comes from years of mission flights cluttered with briefs and covers needing memorization then and there. With a schedule like that, there was little time for rest before rushing off into the field, and even if I did find myself with a length of free time, the pre-mission jitters I'd never shed over the years of being a spy kept me awake. 

There were no jitters now. 

A hand on my shoulder prodded me awake, and I opened my eyes to see the snoring man standing over me with a bemused smile on his face. 

"I can't believe you slept through my snoring. I know, I'm horrible," he commented shyly. I rubbed my eyes, a bit groggy, and glanced around the cabin. I yawned, stretched, and looked up to my newfound acquaintance. 

"What time is it?" I yawned again and rubbed my eyes as sleep fell away into astute alertness. The man laughed and gave his watch a glance. 

"This thing says 2 am, so," – he calculated in his head – "9 or so. You're lucky you slept on the plane; my first trip over I didn't and was dead to the world for days."

While I couldn't believe this man could ever miss sleep for any occasion, my thoughts were occupied with something quite different than jet-lag and its effects. 

9 am. December 26th. I'd completely and totally missed Christmas. 

The gloom I felt seemed to be shared by the rest of the plane's occupants. A haggard flight crew stood chatting near the exit to the plane with the flight attendants, their hats tucked under their arms to reveal hat hair in its purest form. They looked lonely, lost without their families with them, perhaps just as sad and lost as I was, disembarking an airplane in the middle of a large city with no clue as to the whereabouts of the one I loved; the aching desire within my heart guiding my heavy footfalls down the jet way. One after another, plunking down onto the carpeted metal arm in a robot's steps, purse clutched to my side. It twisted, the sounds of a busy international airport bouncing off cold walls growing louder as I turned with it, head down as I stepped into the warmth of the airport terminal. 

I'd missed Christmas, a day signifying that togetherness I'd longed for the last year. Not only that, I'd flown across the world in the pursuit of Vaughn, stopping at nothing to find him and tell him I loved him. If need be, I'd turn back after uttering those words, those words that spoke all the thank you's for his simple existence, his saving state of grace bestowed upon me in my darkest hours. And for all he'd done, I'd been selfish – focusing on my own needs over his own, my troubles and fears and apprehensions. My paralyzing fear of loosing him like I'd lost my mother. 

The thoughts swirled around in my head as a woman chimed a greeting to me over my right shoulder, her words cutting through the fog inside my head as my feet kept moving forward. 

"Merry Christmas, Sydney."

I looked up. 

And there was Vaughn. 

..

_"Just as soon as you tell me where you've been." _

_"Visited my mother, is that a crime?"   
_

_"Listen, you can't say a word, okay?" he replied quickly. "I just needed someone to hear me out, tell me if I'm doing the right thing." _

_11:37 am  
A. V, E  
12  
_

_"Yes, I was. So there he was, sitting on the couch, shouting away in a language half of us don't understand, and drinking more than, well, I've ever seen him drink before."  
_

_"It's not fine. Things have just – God, and you know I had something planned for you and now, well, I won't even be there to give it to you."_

..

I threw myself into his arms wholeheartedly. 

He gave a grunt in surprise, stepping back with one foot to steady himself as I latched my arms around his body and buried my face in the soft cotton of his simple white dress shirt. The world swirled around us until it was nothing but a blur of colors, a swish of a paintbrush against the blank canvas of our new life together, leaving everything out of focus but us as the sounds of the airport faded away and all I could hear was the steady beating of his heart. I felt arms wrap around and envelop me, warm and strong as they held me steadfast for a quick yet tender kiss to my forehead. 

"What happened to your head?" 

I pulled back just enough to look up along his profile and said, "Your mother hit me in the head with a screen door." He laughed a deep, rumbling laugh I'd heard only a few times before that could be, in his words, as rare as one of my smiles and kissed the bruise on my forehead. 

"And she always called me the klutz." 

"I'll have you know your mother's a very kind woman," I defended. He sobered and nodded. 

"Of course she is. She's worked her magic on you." 

"Magic?" 

"Defiantly. Or maybe," he pondered aloud, "you worked yours on her." 

"You planned this." 

"Yes."

I was on a roll, the clues seen in the last week and a half loudly falling into place. Standing apart from him, I waved my hands in the air as I went through them. "This entire thing. The flight, your mother, even the check-in agent at the airport. Kendall?" 

"Let's just say I owe him my first born. You don't mind, do you?" 

"Not at all," I smiled. "The mission?" 

"Fabricated. I've been here." 

The world snapped back into view like a rubber band. The woman's voice cutting through the fog of my hopelessness had been French. And I'd been to Charles de Gaul enough times to recognize the Parisian airport on first sight. The flight, booked, most likely by Vaughn himself, had been to Paris, not London, and with some help from a friend at the airline, the destination of my flight had gone by unnoticed in my rush to reach him. 

"Vaughn, there's…there's something I need to tell you," I started, but he cut me off with a finger to the lips, eyes darkening slightly as his voice dropped and danced over the skin of my earlobe. 

"That can wait," he told me, and intertwined his hand with mine, leading me through the crowds of the airport like a ship cutting through the untamed sea. 

..

I was a bit angry. 

With all the planning that had gone into something as elaborate as a surprise spanning two continents and an entire ocean, anger was the last thing I should have felt at that moment. But if there was something I'd learned from the drastic turn my life had taken in the last year and a half, it was that trust had to be earned and once broken, was hard to re-establish. 

It wasn't that I was unappreciative. Far from it. The joy I'd felt when finding him, dressed in the perfect suit and sticking out among the busy stream of people around him, when I disembarked the plane was a level of elation I'd felt only a few times in my life before. Instead, I was upset that he'd make me feel so hopeless and dreary on a day when joy spread through the world and I should have been partaking in it with the rest of those celebrating instead of loosing sleep due to my over analytical nature and a late-night long distance telephone call. 

Or perhaps, when looking at the situation from another point of view, I was angry that he'd been able to pull a fast one on me. To plan something such as this with the help of so many people and keep me from the truth. The clues I'd stumbled on over the last 12 days might not have been accidental at all – perhaps he let me see just enough to keep my mind occupied while he planned away with his friends. Whatever his intentions were, he'd still shown there was more to him than I thought, and even he could out maneuver the great Sydney Bristow. 

Complacency was a state I wished to be in yet was far from as he sped down wide roads past cars jammed with families and popular country bakeries. He said not a word the entire way, just kept his eyes on the road and hands firmly on the wheel as if I were some dangerous temptress that would steer him off track. 

That, or he knew the questions that would spew forth from my mouth given the proper opening. 

He swerved suddenly, forty minutes into our trip, and the flecking of gravel against the metal frame of the car jarred me from daydream thoughts to the present, the _now_. The heat of his gaze, intense and full, fell upon me, and I was blushing before I even turned to look at him.

"I feel like I'm in a sappy movie," I commented. He nodded. 

"You like sappy movies."

"Yeah," I agreed, "but don't tell anyone." 

I put a finger to my lips and hissed, the signal of 'shhh' for a secret that must be kept sliding forth through the quiet ambiance of the car as he turned again and kicked up more dust behind us in a veil covering our tracks. The slumbering trees of winter gave way to a grander sight; a cottage settled deep in the enveloping woods on a small plot of neatly kept land hidden in the dead of winter. I followed the line of the horizon with my eyes until they hit the house, and I flashed back to the picture hanging over Amélie Vaughn's shoulder like an angel watching over her in that empty home up north. 

"Vaughn…." I started, but found my chest tight with emotion as the car skidded to a quick stop tangent to the squab brick house and the keys clink together as he tossed them from hand to hand. 

"My mother inherited this house when she married my father forty years ago," he confessed as the keys went from hand to hand in the clinking of a failed jugular. "She told me it had some kind of magic – "

"I figured out your wish," I blurted out. He turned to me, face illuminated by the young sun crawling up the sky and I could have sworn his eyes were a darker green than I'd seen before, their depths inviting me to fall down into them. 

His tone was flat. "You have." 

"I snuck into your house – "

"I know."

"– to grab a - wait, you know?" 

He smirked. "Weiss told me when I asked him to take care of Donovan while I was away and he didn't have his key."

"I broke the shelf in your closet. Now, don't be mad at me, but I was just at a loss as to what the perfect gift for you would be and I had this insane idea that you'd like one of your pictures framed like I did; when you gave me that antique frame, I searched for a picture to put in it – which was ironic that – "

"Sydney," he said calmly. "You're rambling."

I took a deep breath, consulted the good angel on my shoulder, and straightened my face. "When I saw that picture in your mother's kitchen, I knew what your wish was. Aside from the fact that you want your father back, and I know that's not going to happen, you wanted to follow in his footsteps.

You wanted to find a woman who swept you off your feet and do everything you could to make her happy." 

I closed my eyes and waited for his answer. 

..

"Yeah."

I ventured a peek with my left eye. "Yeah?" 

"How could I ever doubt you? Of course you figured it out," he muttered. 

"You're just saying that." 

"Syd, I dated Alice for two years, and she never even came close. My parents were mismatched from the beginning; my mother was as outspoken as him and they'd always get into stupid arguments over trivial things, each always wanting to be right. And they had their share of problems before they got it right. I guess I always looked up to them, and after – "he paused and looked down for a second before regaining his resolve. "He was happy, she was happy, and I was happy. So, I asked Santa for a woman that would make me happy. Well, I don't think I phrased it that way – girls still had cooties when I was five."

"I see you've grown out of that phase."

"Yeah, you could say that. Listen, Syd, when I met you, I think I stopped breathing. It wasn't outer beauty or stunning looks, which you do possess in great quantities. It was who you were inside that almost killed me, and I suddenly found I couldn't live life without that. You infuriated me, but I liked it; I liked how strong you were and how you weren't afraid to show weakness once and awhile. You are real. My wish was answered long ago, Syd, so now it's your turn. Fair?" 

I think if I hadn't been sitting, my knees would have given out on me. 

"That's why I did all of this. I wanted to let you get away, but I knew I couldn't just tell you; I had to let you get here your own way. You move through life so differently than everyone else that I had to give you what you wanted without giving it to you." He paused and rubbed the back of his neck, face falling into a smile that made him look like a boy out on his first date with the most popular girl in school. "Does that make sense?" 

"Perfect sense." 

"Good. Because I was worried you'd kick my ass if I didn't do this right." 

"Oh, c'mon," I smirked. "I wouldn't completely annihilate you." 

"Oh?" 

"I'd eat your food first. I'm starved after that flight." 

..

Marie, as it was, happened to be the daughter of the local baker and was one of the best pastry chiefs in the area. His phone call of a few days prior had been with her, a courtesy call to tell him delivering this early on the day after Christmas would be costly, and I could tell by the delicious smells flowing through the front door of the cabin that he'd spared no expense. After a 14 hour plane ride with only a tin of cookies to sustain me, I dove into the food headfirst, leaving him behind as I sat myself at the table, put the empty cookie tin beside me, and started tasting everything I could get my hands on. 

It was when the sun was setting that I finally calmed down, wrapped in Vaughn's arms as we snuggled into the overstuffed couch set in front of the fireplace. My eyelids threatened to deliver me to sleep with each tick of the clock's second hand, and the flames licking firewood had nothing on the heater that was settled just under me on the couch, his skin warm like coco fresh from the teakettle. 

"I have to say, this is the best present I've ever gotten." 

Vaughn shifted and turned so he was looking down at me. "But I haven't given you your present yet." 

"Then what was all of this?" 

"Haven't you been saying you needed a vacation?" 

"True, but Vaughn, this is wonderful. I don't want anything else." 

There was more shuffling as he reached behind him and groped the chair next to the couch until he found the right pocket and pulled something from it. With raised eyebrows, I followed his hand from the leather's deep pocket to the space between us, where he held the small, hastily gift wrapped package inches from my face and beckoned me to take it. 

So I did. 

It appeared as if he'd twisted wrapping paper around it, then followed suit with scotch tape until the dull surface of the paper had been made shiny by the overwhelming amount of tape used. Thankful, for once, that I had long nails, I picked at the tape until I flecked off a piece, then worked from there until a silver chain slid from the small hole I'd managed to make cobra-like in its unveiling. It stopped, dammed up by a larger object on the end of the chain, and I gave him a nervous look before pulling it from its home with a strong yank. 

And was promptly hit in the face by something heavy and metal. 

"I wear it on every mission, for good luck," he explained as I turned the all-to-familiar ring over in my hands. "It was handed down to me, and was for a few generations, I think. Anyway, I don't need it anymore." 

"Why?"

"Because," he started, pulling me closer to him, "I have you. I don't need anything else in the world."

Snow started to fall outside the window, a pale white backdrop to the glowing fire roaring in the old brick fireplace. My eyes were drawn to the swirling dances of falling snow, watching as they fell straight from the sky only to be pulled away by the menacing wind. But in the end, they all reached the ground, blanketing the dormant Earth with their unique patterns. And perhaps they landed miles away from where they wanted to go, but made it to the ground nonetheless. 

Maybe that's what this was. The road less traveled and all that. That when you come to a fork in the road, you can't see the end of each path laid out before you, only as far as the brush will let you. I'd wanted something so normal; I had looked down the path and seen couples enjoying their time together, at the ice rink, walking down the street, and become narrow-minded to the world that truly existed around me. Sure, the last two weeks weren't the smoothest, nor the most conventional when it came to the preparing for a major holiday together, but I'd missed the bigger picture. 

I wanted to enjoy my time with Vaughn. And I had, even though my thoughts had been elsewhere. Shopping for Christmas gifts and skating under the stars. Watching holiday lights dance around front porches and decorated garage doors. Sitting on the bank of a river while he played with my hair. Went to a horrible holiday party complete with bad jokes, drunk coworkers, and the intervention of several police officers. Found a tree – the list continued on in my mind as I stared at our reflection in the window, his arms wrapped around me as he rested his chin on my head, content with just being. 

The road here had been hard, convoluted by unseen circumstances and unusual ordeals, but it had been, in comparison, just as normal as a schoolteacher's. And maybe that's why Vaughn had planned it how he did, knowing I never made my way through life in a straight line, expected the unexpected in every situation. The surprise of seeing him waiting for me came out of no where, strengthened the very love I held for him. 

Here I'd been searching my life for someone who knew me. Not the happy grad student rooming with her best friend or the tough daughter of a respected spy. But me. A girl who'd lost her mother and had grown up so fast she'd skipped childhood and went right to adulthood complete with responsibilities and expectations. In the midst of things, I lost who I was, that precious self-identity that marks us different from the rest of the world. 

Then again, wasn't he just a boy who'd lost his dad and was trying to find him? Our methods might be different, but the aim, like the snowflakes falling from the midnight sky, was the same. 

We'd just been blown off course for awhile. 

I grabbed Vaughn's hands and twisted myself around in his embrace. "It's snowing outside."

"It is." 

"Do you have a hat?" 

He raised an eyebrow. "A hat?" 

"And some gloves. I didn't bring any gloves."

"Weren't you the woman who mocked me for playing in the rain?" 

"I was a fool then," I answered with a pouting bottom lip. "You've educated me in the ways – "

"There are hats and gloves," he interrupted. He smiled beneath me as I leapt backwards to my feet, pulling him up with me. In a blur of laughter he collected me up in his arms and led me away, digging through closets and chests like some great archeologist searching for the greatest treasure of his career until finally, at hat swung at me, followed by gloves and a warmer jacket. 

Hand in hand, I led him to the yard. With misdirected snowflakes swirling around us, we danced and laughed until our sides ached and fingers grew numb with cold. Eyelashes coated in flurries, I fell to the snow with my arms wrapped around his waist. 

"Hey there," he smirked down to me. I flung my arms to the sides and grinned. 

"Didn't you ever make snow angels as a kid?"

"You're my angel."

His voice was a low and hoarse whisper like that I'd heard in the train station when no place was home. I leaned up and captured his lips with my own, pulling him down to me in a kiss that tasted like fresh snow as my fingers tingled with warmth. 

"And you're mine," I breathed. He flipped back onto his feet. 

"Come up out of that snow," he told me, "and kiss me properly." 

I could do nothing but comply, leaving the snow angel to watch over us as we finally found our place in the world. Our own brand of normality in a world of abnormality and shadows. 

The snow held no shadows, and as I tipped Amélie's hat back on my head, I realized Vaughn's Christmas wish had been the same as my own. 

And we'd both gotten what we wanted for Christmas. 


End file.
